


A Piece of His Heart

by solelyhaz



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Christmas, Christmas Musical, Classic Rock, Drama Student Louis Tomlinson, Emotional Baggage, Friends to Lovers, M/M, OT5 Friendship (One Direction), School Newspaper, Slow Build, Students, Wedding, Writer Harry Styles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:02:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 120,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23914252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solelyhaz/pseuds/solelyhaz
Summary: Losing his mind in the middle of first year was not how Louis intended to make his mark in the performing arts programme.Rather, he intended to break out of his shell, to get lost in his art and never want out, to fulfill the life he once thought was out of reach—but, intentions are easily forgotten when running from a past that seems all too present. As second year begins, Louis is determined to make it through the year unscathed. On the first of October, Louis meets a boy who might help him do that. Harry believes in all things Louis doesn’t. Maybe Louis begins to believe him.“I’ve tried everything to help rebuild you, and as much as I wanted to be the one to do it—it’s him.”Or, the university AU in which Louis directs the Christmas musical, Zayn works at a record store, Niall makes a great classmate, and Harry makes a great soulmate. (Liam tags along for the ride, too).
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson, Zayn Malik/Liam Payne
Comments: 24
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> hi hi!!
> 
> This is my first post on ao3, so I apologize for being a novice. I've been a reader and writer of one direction/larry fanfiction for a long while now (perhaps way too long lol) and I've always wanted to share something of my own. 
> 
> I've been working on APOHH for a few years, and I don't think I'll ever be done fiddling around with it. But for now, here's what I've got :)
> 
> Enjoy !!! I'd love to hear what you think of it!
> 
>   
> +++
> 
> Apologies in advance for any typos, inconsistencies, confusing plot points, etcetera—it's been a long time of erasing and rewriting, but I hope it'll add up for you. 
> 
> Ps, this story is set in England/loosely follows U of Manchester's academic schedule. As much as I'd like to think I'm English enough to write about it, I'm not English enough to write about it. Please correct me!
> 
> Pps, all the boys are the same age in this story—second year at uni. I have also changed Louis' mum's name to 'Linda'.
> 
> Content warnings: profanity, sexual content, brief drug use, brief retell of domestic abuse, brief homophobia/slurs.

It’s seven am on the first day of second year, and Louis has not slept yet. Instead, he’s counted every single dent on the ceiling. Twice.

Perhaps accepting his best mate’s celebratory ‘cheers to second year!’ concoction of a coffee at two a.m. hadn’t been his brightest decision. Or, lobbing himself down onto the sofa and being too lazy to lug himself up to bed was. Nonetheless, Louis’d penned a list of things that might go wrong on his first day and ‘crippling restlessness’ wasn’t on it.

Louis rolls onto his side. He doesn’t even attempt to close his eyes again. The armrest continues to pinch places in his neck he didn’t even know he had. It’s obvious that needs as much sleep as possible, as he’s got a class to attend at nine and people to engage with until finals, but the caffeine pulsing through his veins leads to anxiety, and anxiety leads to restlessness, and then restlessness, well. Restlessness leads to counting every single dent and scratch on the ceiling twice.

He stares longingly at the wall, then the boxy television set, then the gaming console and twelve-hundred versions of FIFA, until he thinks he hears the sound of a door opening upstairs.

Louis props his weight up onto his elbows right as a body comes barreling through the doorway.

“Why, _hello_ —” Louis starts, but he’s interrupted by a loud crash and a string of mangled profanities. He hadn’t penned that either.

“New year _and_ new legs?” Louis calls out to the flat in general, and he almost gets up to check if the boy’s all right, but his limbs can’t disagree more. So he sits, and waits, seeing nothing but shadowy blobs and hearing everything but actual words.

Then the boy gets up from the floor.

“ _Fuck_ , who put—since when was there a table there?” Zayn’s stumbling terribly on what seems to be an injured right foot, and Louis can’t help but smile a little. It’s as if all his morning agitations, mixed with the new pain blooming in his neck, have faded away just for the moment being.

Louis sighs, saying, “I don’t think it’s ever moved,” and even in the midst of his groggy haze, Louis can still make out the crisp outline of Zayn’s body. From his styled black quiff to the sharp angles of his shoulders, Louis’ eyes trail over his profile as he finally steadies himself against the wall. Louis scoffs. “Six out of ten for your entrance, though.”

He meets Zayn’s gaze right as the boy cocks an eyebrow. His eyes are glowing. “Only six?” Zayn grits.

Louis lets his torso fall back on the sofa. By the time Louis opens his eyes again, Zayn has already clicked on a few lights and is settled in the kitchen. He’s peering bewilderedly at the array of mugs they surely have too many of, and in the spirit of helping his best mate make the most important decision of the day, Louis gathers enough willpower to scramble to his feet.

“The batman mug, obviously,” Louis says conversationally, strolling up beside him. He hops up onto the counter and sighs, loudly, “Gotta love a fine Monday morning.”

Zayn swipes the black mug. “First day of music theory with Stratner!” He exclaims, mock-excited and giving his arm a good uplifting swing, but Louis knows he’s an absolute sucker for music, always has been. They were little dependent bundles of joy lolling around the primary school yard and Zayn was already bopping to the nursery rhymes their teacher used to play.

“Sounds like fun,” Louis rubs his eyes, maybe now the sleep has finally washed away, and tugs on a loose string off his joggers. He tries not to focus on the way his feet hang like a ten year old, rather, he centers what’s left of his early-morning mental capacity on holding up this conversation, “And as for me, _thank you_ for asking—”

“I didn’t ask.”

“—it’s my first day of stage acting with Prof Miller!” Louis singsongs, waving his hands about, for both emphasis and the ridding of his best mate’s profound negativity, “ _Oi_ , Z, did you hear me?” Louis adds a horrendous twisting torso movement, just for good measure, but to no avail.

Without as much as a glance, Zayn reaches up and shuts the mug cabinet. Louis would be proud if he wasn’t blatantly ignoring his efforts.

“You’re blocking the kettle,” He deadpans, the mere task of looking Louis in the eyes threatening to shatter his monotonous veneer, but not before he shoves at Louis’ knee, “Budge up.”

“Oh no,” Louis gasps, spreading his legs out ever so slightly, just to see Zayn’s hand clench irritably around his mug. Though, before Zayn can grab him by the ankle and yank him clear off the stone, which he would have totally done and probably has before, Louis takes the initiative and slides off by himself.

“Right—” Louis lands awkwardly on the hardwood, his socks sending him wheeling into the island. He saves himself by latching onto one of the metal stools, and good for it. Decapitation might have put a damper on his first day.

Louis pops upright when Zayn shoots him a backward glance, “— _right_ ,” Louis continues, “I’ve got to shower. Enjoy your cuppa.”

Zayn scoffs lightly. “Thanks. I’ll probably be gone before you’re done,” He says, half distracted by the task of choosing a tea flavor. He takes a few quick glances at Louis, smirking as he stands in his peripheral. “So—”

“Oh, no!” Louis exclaims, smacking his knee in mock-despair, “You mean you won’t be able to govern my outfit choice today?”

Zayn barely looks up. “Nope, not today.”

“Tragic.”

Zayn sighs a little too dramatically. He says, “Alas, what’s the golden rule?” and then turns towards Louis, expertly pouring himself a cup of the scalding water. It evens out right before the rim, and then he’s dropping his favourite black tea blend in the water, all while looking Louis right in the eyes.

Louis blinks. “I never asked for this.”

Zayn blinks back. “Polo plus…?”

“No.”

“C’mon, now. _Polo plus_ —”

“Okay!” Louis rolls his eyes amicably, unable to bite back his laughter, “ _Polo plus chinos is a no-no_. Got it.”

Zayn contently laughs to himself, and it’s a slightly worrisome sight if Louis’ completely honest. The boy’s eyes seem to glow brighter. “Perfect,” He grins, kicking lightly at Louis’ socked foot, “And, to what I was saying before you rudely interrupted me… have fun today, Tommo.”

Louis’ eyes fall down to where the boy is touching him. Looking back up, Zayn seems strangely serious for seven o’clock in the morning, so Louis smiles at him with a small nod.

Louis begins towards the foyer, “You try to have fun today too. Keep the eye rolling to a minimum, yeah?” he jests, waving the boy a backward goodbye. Louis’ got one foot on the first step of the staircase when he stops. Spinning on the balls of his feet, he says, “Oh, and Zayn?”

The boy’s head pops out from behind the pantry door in response, shoulders shrugged and hands wrapped tightly around his mug, as if it’s the only thing keeping him warm.

There is steam billowing up toward his face when he murmurs, “Hm?”

“See you around one.” Louis says.

Zayn grins into his mug, eyes glistening through the cloud of steam. And even if Louis’ not entirely sure if it’s possible for eyes to glow, Zayn’s definitely do. 

☆

Louis is genuinely, seriously considering ditching the whole ‘proper education’ idea and heading straight home when he steps into the lecture room.

It’s not even that it’s too crowded, or halfway across the campus, or at the worst time of day. It’s not even that he’ll have to interact with the twenty or so new people around him in the near future—it’s the fan at the back of the room that pans like it was built in the eighteen-hundreds.

 _That’s new_ , he thinks for a moment, and then promptly lets out a small chuckle because obviously, _it_ _isn’t._

Louis stands motionless in the doorway wondering how obnoxious the noise will be for the next five months, and how much money he has in his bank account to replace the fan as a whole, until people begin to look at him like he’s lost.

“Excuse me,” How much do fans even cost? Can he pool funds from his peers? It’s got to be bothering more than just him. It’s practically _wailing_ — “Right, I know the fan’s a freak of nature, but I don’t wanna be walking in after Prof Miller.”

That’s when he finally feels the hand on his back. It’s pushing, but not intrusively, more like a polite _hey I’m talking to you_ or a _can you please move?_ Which.

 _Oh_ _._ “Oh,” Louis says, stutters really, and then spins his torso around.

He’s met with a set of bright blue eyes below eyebrows of dirty blond, peering at him from a height that’s not too intimidating. The stranger’s smiling confidently, coolly, like he doesn’t know what to say but he’s still glad to be interacting. Louis can see his chest rise and fall calmly under his pullover.

“The fan is awful, yeah.” Louis tries and—wow, he really doesn’t know how to react around people who look like that, talking to people who look like him (even if blocking the only entrance provoked it).

Louis feels like he’s drowning in his eyes. They’re like the ocean.

When the blond flashes him yet another life-ruining grin, Louis swears his eyes ripple. Now, is this nauseatingly cliché or the biggest advancement in his life to date? Ocean Eyes is vivid and convincing and maybe Louis can’t remember the last time he took a breath.

He _also_ can’t remember what was said over the last ten seconds—Ocean Eyes is now looking at him expectantly, as if he’s waiting for a reply, and Louis has absolutely no idea what they’re talking about.

“Shit, were you not? Maybe I should listen to him more, then.” Ocean Eyes continues, and, there it is. Louis has never been more confused in his entire life. Not when he took his a-levels and then left the building questioning whether he had even been in the right class the entire year, or when he had lost his glasses on his face, or when he’d been separated from Zayn during fresher’s fair and then signed his name on seven different clipboards because he couldn’t say ‘no’ alone.

All those memories pale in comparison to this exact moment. _This_ , this is the biggest conundrum of his eighteen years of life.

Somewhere in the midst of drowning in the blond’s eyes, “Oh, I…” Louis manages, as if the blond was in fact wrong, but Louis can’t seem to fathom a world where he _would_ be wrong. Everything about the blond seems so right. “I’m sorry, what are you talking about?” Louis gives up.

Ocean Eyes barks out a laugh, grinning like mad again. Or maybe he hasn’t stopped. “I was saying, my best mate writes for the school paper and last year he covered the Christmas musical— _god_ , what was it? Zombies or something? It was—”

“ _Corpse Bride_ , so pretty much.” Louis interrupts on a laugh, biting on his thumbnail, but it’s just his mouth filling in while his mind is trying to keep up with the rush of memories.

Each year, willing students and professors from the arts and tech departments join forces to arrange a Christmas musical.

The first disappointment came when Louis found out the annual Christmas musical wasn’t even about _Christmas_. Actually, past productions were often the _exact opposite_ —the musical is just held on Christmas Day. But don’t get him wrong, it’s not like he likes the festivities that come around each bloody December twenty-fifth; rather, he quite wanted to see how they could put anyone in a Santa costume and have it be taken seriously.

The second disappointment was practically tailgating the first, bringing itself to light when he attended the first meeting on a whim. Louis remembers, faintly, thinking that it was all going to shit while sitting in the theatre nearly a year ago, late September and after hours, freezing his arse off on the cold wooden stage.

The building had been teeming with students, he’d made eye contact with at least twenty-six people without trying, and he was beginning to feel like he was actually suffocating. And just to add insult to injury, _apparently_ the shouting of jumbled ideas back and forth hadn’t been a new thing. It was how the students and faculty always decided what musical to put on. 

So Louis’d been sitting silently and uncomfortably, his attention jumping between the relevant conversations being held to his right, and a detailed description of the last’s night football game on his left. Manchester United is about to score the winning goal and Macbeth rides onto the pitch. The Phantom is right in the middle of his solo and a football clocks him in the head.

It was truly going nowhere.

Until Louis opened his mouth.

That part of his memory was _vivid_.

The entire theatre had silenced as if on cue, no more footie matches or angsty generals, just every set of eyes turning towards Louis like he was some sort of magnet.

It was a dumb suggestion, really—partly because he thinks out loud, mostly because one of the older professors was eyeing him like was going to throw him into the middle of the debate if he didn’t speak up.

Next thing Louis knew, the room had erupted in cheers, like proper _sound effect_ cheers, and well, it as a unanimous and frighteningly enthusiastic: YES. (Louis quite likes Tim Burton’s work, too).

So Louis had helped out with the production a lot more than a first year probably should have, and the other students had actually begun to deem him a leader. He became something like a co-director to the prof in charge, always seeming to have the last opinion on just about everything—ranging from the colour of Victoria’s shoes, to the colour of the backdrop in the final scene, and it was a weird feeling for the most part.

That, until he—

“Right!” Louis’ eyes dart up to Ocean Eye’s face, his thoughts shattering, _“Corpse Bride_ ,” realization washes across the blond’s face, “He went to all of the rehearsals—poor boy was mad obsessed. With you and the production.”

Louis swallows dryly, trying to picture every face he had seen come in and out of the theatre during those few months. By the time Louis realizes he’s been picturing absolutely nothing, too many seconds have passed and Ocean Eyes is looking at him expectantly.

Louis feels his heart pinch. “Oh… nice.” He says lamely, because apparently, it’s all he can muster when he’s seconds away from going underwater again.

Luckily, Ocean Eyes laughs. “I didn’t even see the play. Didn’t have to. I basically watched the damn thing ten times just listening to him,” he rolls his eyes amicably and Louis is suddenly reminded of Zayn, “I had to start locking my dorm to keep him from coming across the hall.”

Only then does Louis laugh, because he’s sure the musical’s cast didn’t even love the show that much. There’s a warmth building in his chest now, and as hard as he tries, he can’t seem to stop it. 

Louis shifts on his feet. “You were asking about me, though? If I was or wasn’t…” He lets his question taper off, subconsciously tugging at the collar of his light blue polo.

The blond picks it back up. “Oh, right,” He points to Louis, nodding his head excitedly, “I was wondering if you were the director I kept hearing about.”

Louis can’t help the nervous edge in his tone. “No. I mean, _sort of_ , but I wouldn’t really call it—”

Louis startles when the blond claps his shoulder, “The infamous director!” he exclaims, drawing the attention of the students sitting nearby. Louis can feel the eyes on his back, and before he can open his mouth to dismiss himself, a group of girls walk up to the blocked doorway.

“Uh, excuse us—”

Ocean Eyes turns his torso around immediately, drawling, “Oh, my apologies, ladies.” and moving to the side with a wide grin and an outspread hand.

When Louis finally turns back to Ocean Eyes, he’s already taken a good five strides towards the rows of tables. This is where Louis should make his way toward a seat as well, but, “Oi! Wait.” Louis calls out to him.

Ocean Eyes does wait, spinning on his heels and leaning coolly to one side.

Louis gathers his composure. “Your mate. He—is he in performing arts too?”

“He doesn’t think he’s cut out for it. English Lit major, he is.”

The blond flashes him another award-winning grin, before heading across the rough hardwood in the opposite direction. Louis does the same, slinking down into the seat closest to the front without drawing any more eyes.

He lowers his bag to the ground and then ruffles out his wind-blown fringe with shaky hands. He knows his cheeks are horribly red, not only because his fingers just washed over the hot skin there, but also because it’s a thing they do a lot. It’s not even Ocean Eyes, or Ocean Eyes’ mate, or the nip in the air today—not entirely, anyway.

Sighing, Louis averts his eyes toward the blackboard, and his train of thought derails immediately. Mostly because there is a now motherly looking woman in front of the grey slate, eyeing him.

 _Right_. That would be Professor Miller, then.

“Good morning class! Welcome to your first class of the year.” She singsongs, bright and airy, and Louis straightens up in his chair, “Unfortunately, I’ll be your professor this semester, but were gonna try to make the best of it.” people laugh at that, and her eyes flick around the room cheerfully, touching base with just about everyone in mere seconds.

When her eyes land on Louis, she stares at him for a second extra, smile lingering on her lips. Odd or not, Louis can’t help but smile back at her—there are people from all walks of life around him, with excitement clear in their eyes, and for some reason, Louis is beginning to feel it too.

☆

By the time class ends and he’s scurried out of the room like a spooked animal, Louis thinks he has safely developed a pretty sound opinion of the class.

Professor Miller’s a lovely lady, kind and friendly, minus her subconscious tendency to call on Louis for every answer. She’s a bit of a free spirit as well—with neon Converse, red lipstick, and a scarf printed with van Gogh’s Starry Night—but Louis can hear the passion in her voice, see the warmth in her eyes, and maybe he already knows that he’s going to learn a lot from her.

And even though the course is a bit longer than his other classes, stretching on to about half eleven, it didn’t really feel like it. The most part of the two hours had been filled with creative means of explaining the course plan, which earned a chorus of laughter from the class and maybe a few chuckles from Louis himself.

(Not to mention when Ocean Eyes laughed obnoxiously from the back of the room, probably at something that wasn’t even funny, and Louis had to really try, _sincerely attempt_ , to force away a smile).

Louis is jolted out of his thoughts when his body is pushed to the right, a loud speaker blaring his tube stop over the music in his earbuds.

“ _Shit_.” He yanks his earbuds clear out of his ears, earning a dirty look from the elderly lady across from him. And maybe he scowls back for a second, before remembering that he’s on the tube, and it does, to his unsuspecting horror, tend to stop and start.

“I, uh, sorry,” Louis tells her, replacing an earbud and standing up, but she’d already returned to her crossword puzzle in the time it took Louis to wipe the look off his face. He stands to his feet in defeat, winding past her and through the sliding doors.

 _Seventeen, down:_ _Ten letter word for pleasant._

“Delightful.” Louis mumbles to himself.

As he ascents into the city, the bitter September air wastes no time in biting at his exposed skin. He probably should have dressed warmer, but he’s been dressing inappropriately for the weather his entire life, and maybe Louis is a creature of habit.

It’s half noon now, and he’s sure to reach his flat complex within the next ten minutes. Until then, though, he tries not to make eye contact with the other pedestrians as he makes his way down the pavement, and instead focus on the way his breath falls from his mouth before crashing into his chest.

☆

“Absolute _bugger_!” is the first thing Louis hears when he shuts the door behind him.

“Hope you’re not talking about me.” Louis calls back, dropping his keys into the bowl by the door like a proper husband, and then padding into the living room.

Louis loses it the minute he sees him.

Zayn’s halfway through a timed video game race, his fingers flying and knuckles white on the game controller. He is practically glued to the television, a thin layer of sweat coating his forehead, and Louis honestly isn’t sure what he should be laughing harder at—the fact that they _still_ haven’t thrown away the florally engraved coffee table, or that Zayn’s currently siting cross-legged _on it._

Louis goes with both. “Oh my god, you’re a child,” He wheezes, the game flashing bright blue as the avatar onscreen drives right off a cliff, plunging down into the dark depths of some sort of mushroom cave. Zayn screams. “That’s unfortunate. Fiftieth time’s the charm, Z?”

The boy gives him a backward glance as Louis leans against the sofa. Zayn’s head is blocking the television when the avatar appears back on screen, the timer in the top corner red and flashing, but Louis’ still laughing.

Zayn glares at him pointedly. “You got something to say?” He taunts.

Louis spins on his heels, “Nope.” and then makes his way into the kitchen.

The mug cupboard is still open when Louis rounds the island, tea packets scattered on the granite and water still in the kettle. Louis cleans up the mess, and when he rounds the island again, Zayn is leaning against it.

“Z, would it kill you to—”

“How was class?” Zayn interrupts, three-parts evasion and one-part interest.

Louis still thinks about it for a moment. He doesn’t want to make this whole thing into something it’s not, to _jinx_ himself or something, but then he remembers the excitement in Professor Miller’s voice.

“Really good, actually.” Louis decides.

A moment passes.

“ _Good_?” Zayn wheezes from behind him, his hand clutching his chest, his knees nearly giving out, “Is that even possible?”

He drops his bag on the floor and heads towards the fridge, chuckling flatly, “Yeah, yeah, I know,” he scans the various cans and leftovers before pulling out his unfinished fizzy drink from the night before, “And I might’ve made a friend?”

This time, Zayn doesn’t react at all. Which means he’s _actually_ shocked. “A friend?” He nearly laughs, his eyes widening slightly, but Louis cuts him off with a bottle cap to the head.

“Don’t start.” Louis warns.

The boy laughs loudly. He raises his hands in surrender and then plops down on one of the stools. He props his head up onto his palm, scooping up the cap and rolling it between his index and thumb.

“A _boy_?” He pries.

Louis pauses, the bottle an inch from his lips, and immediately quirks an eyebrow. He takes a good few seconds to just glare into the boy’s eyes, because, if he’s not mistaken, Zayn looks almost _hopeful._ Louis isn’t sure whether he should take this as a friendly interest in his social life or a much-needed wake up call.

Louis nods anyway.

And Zayn’s absolutely enthralled. “Name?”

The second wave of realization hits Louis a lot slower than the first. When it does, though, Louis’ mid-swallow and almost chokes. Zayn’s eyes flicker with amusement, a stray piece of hair falling into his eyes, all whilst Louis wonders when it became acceptable to call someone a friend whilst not even knowing their _name._

It never did.

“Well—”

“Is he pretty?”

Louis stops.

Zayn smirks.

Louis sighs.

“You know what, I take it back. You’re not a child, you’re an _idiot_.” Louis groans, tipping the glass backwards until the cool liquid runs past his lips.

“But, I’m _your_ idiot.” Zayn pats Louis’ shoulder in earnest, and they both roll their eyes in unison.

A moment passes.

Louis places the bottle down onto the island. “Okay, listen,” he starts, “So maybe I don’t know his name yet, but he’s got these big round blue eyes, right, like, the _ocean_. His hair is dirty blond, but the good kind, and he’s got the thickest Irish accent I think I’ve ever heard. It’s actually quite—”

Louis doesn’t even realize he’s being laughed at until the cap hits his head.

“ _Ow_ —”

“Seriously? _You’re_ the idiot, on my god. The _ocean_?” Zayn echoes, and okay, maybe it sounds weird when it’s coming from someone else’s mouth.

Louis smiles nonetheless. “Yes. Like the Atlantic.”

Zayn samples this for a moment. Then, he stands up from his stool. “I suddenly want no part of this,” he takes three strides toward the living room, waving his hand passively as he picks up his game controller, “You get started on that name—I’ll get started on my fifty-first try.”

☆

The next two weeks seem to go by in what feels like seconds.

Louis’ saved up at least fifteen pounds for a new fan already (he swears it’s getting louder _)_ and Zayn’s had tea in the batman mug every morning so far (it’s a great way to start the day, drinking something tasteful out of something equally tasteful).

Stage acting is already in full swing too, starting every other weekday in the best way possible. It isn’t long before Professor Miller’s assignments begin to feel less and less like actual work, and even if his other classes aren’t that riveting, Louis can’t bring himself to complain.

One thing that maybe isn’t so great, though, is how often he had unintentionally come into contact with Ocean Eyes since they first met. _That_ , that was bad. Both inside and outside of stage acting, everywhere Louis looked—there he was. And what makes the whole situation worse: operation _Name Game_ still hasn’t come into play. 

It went a little something like this:

Wednesday: Louis bumps into the blond while scurrying into class just before the bell. He proceeds to apologize sheepishly without making any eye contact at all.

Friday: After class, Louis is kicking a vending machine for eating his five quid when the blond rounds the corner. They make eye contact, Louis smiles unnaturally, and then heads right for the exit doors. He doesn’t get his crisps.

Monday: Louis gets up to ask Professor Miller a question, and then trips over the leg of the blond’s table. Everyone laughs goodheartedly; Louis does too, but then chokes on air when the blond’s bright laughter joins them. He forgets his question. 

Thursday: Louis is in the toilet washing his hands, and maybe dancing a bit in the mirror, when the door flies open and the blond strolls in. It’s the fastest natural pose Louis has ever struck, and the blond immediately begins to play it off like he hadn’t noticed. The smirk on his face says otherwise.

It’s almost like someone, somewhere, decided that they needed to be friends. Louis’ still not sure if this is a good or a bad thing.

Now, it’s Monday, and Louis is dressed in joggers and a beanie. He’s running on two cups of Zayn’s freaky coffee, with his back arched and his eyes scanning over a photocopied transcript of an American musical.

The objective, delicately detailed by Professor Miller, is to highlight clear instances of character development. So, Louis is doing just that, silently minding his own business as the other students chat openly around him.

That, until a body collides with his.

Louis yelps in terror, at least two octaves higher than his attacker's, and then unwillingly tosses his papers. His highlighter and granola bar wrapper sprawl out onto the floor. The whole class stills. _Then_ , Louis realizes just who has collapsed at his feet.

“Oh my _god_ —”

The blond begins to laugh loudly, interrupting Louis with the muttering of all sorts of apologies and harmless curse words. Louis knows his classmates are staring now, but his whole thought process is basically blank. He’s honestly not sure whether he should ask the blond if he is all right, or just simply stare at him like a proper idiot, and before he can get too deep in thought, the blond straightens out his jumper and then quickly slinks into the empty spot beside Louis. 

“Nothing to see here, folks!” Ocean Eyes calls out, loud and announcer-like, earning a few chuckles from Professor Miller as she looks up from her transcript.

Louis’ speechlessness leaves him the second the blond meets his eyes.

Because he’s smiling at Louis dopily, his eyes big and blue and—Zayn can piss off, they’re _definitely_ tiny oceans. The blond’s hands have moved from his jumper to his hair, pulling and flattening it, but Louis didn’t really see anything wrong with it in the first place. Louis wants to drown in his eyes all over again.

“I think the universe is punishing me for skipping out on your show.” Ocean Eyes says finally. He reaches down to tuck Louis’ bag under the table. He hands Louis back his highlighter, too, and it’s only then that Louis realizes what has just happened.

In hindsight, Louis probably should have guessed that someone would trip over his bag one day. He has this bad habit of letting things lie around. Says Zayn, anyway. Maybe it’s best to call this encounter _Louis-provoked._

“Sorry for falling on you.” Ocean Eyes finishes.

“Sorry for falling on you last week,” Louis tells him in a mouthful, and the blond chokes back a laugh.

Then, things go quiet.

Louis looks away tentatively, trying not to think of why the blond hasn’t left yet, and returns his attention to his paper. It takes him less than a second to find his spot, but he’s not even reading the words this time. Sure, his eyes are scanning back and forth and his fingers are tracing the lines, but in no way are letters registering at all. All that _is_ registering, though, is how he can see the blond in his peripheral, _feel_ his gaze on him, and suddenly, Louis forgets how to _breathe_.

Louis must have made a noise because the blond scoots back in his chair just then, “Right, I’m probably bothering you—”

“What, no,” Louis says it before he even realizes he has, and it’s strange. Not because Louis hadn’t given his mouth permission, but because the blond doesn’t seem like the kind to care if he _was_ bothering, “You’re not.” Louis assures him.

Ocean Eyes flashes the brightest smile Louis thinks he’s ever seen, and Louis swears he can hear the angels sing. Maybe he’s exaggerating. Maybe.

The blond pushes his chair back up to the table. Louis’ barely taken a breath before he’s talking again, “I’m Niall, by the way. Think we’ve been nameless for long enough.”

Louis lets that sink in for a while.

_Niall._

Out of all the counterproductive research and bets he’d made with Zayn over the past few days, _Niall_ was it. _Niall_ was the reason he hadn’t slept properly, or eaten properly, or done anything other than brainstorm popular male Irish names on every piece of paper he could find. But, it’s also the reason why Louis will never again have to see the look on Zayn’s face when he enters the flat with nothing but shame and a pathetic awkward story.

Louis returns to reality the second Niall begins to beam. Louis knows he should be saying something back, his _own_ name probably, but the more Louis looks at the blond, the more the name begins to fit.

“Hi, Niall,” Is what Louis settles for, “I’m Louis.”

“Nice to meet you, Louis.” Niall says.

Louis can practically feel the slow clap and the celebratory fist bump he will be receiving tonight.

_Operation complete._


	2. Chapter Two

They get their first assignment on a Wednesday.

Professor Miller had begun with an introduction to the basic components of an acting performance, which, Louis thinks, almost put the class to sleep (perhaps _almost_ is a bit of an understatement when the boy two tables down from Louis had definitely been snoring).

To be fair, Professor Miller didn’t seem all that excited either, but her voice remained bright and airy throughout the entirety of her preaching—no matter how many times she emphasized the positive effects of being positive, or the importance of having only the realest of realistic expectations.

Around an hour into the lecture, Professor Miller had really pulled out the big guns. The session had shifted from the basics and centered on the technique of adopting a character’s emotional capacity and physical experiences as your own, which.

Louis had immediately sat up in his chair. A few students actually woke up. _That_ was more like it.

Nearly an hour later, Louis’ eyes flick to the clock above the door. He stretches out his back, covering his mouth as he yawns, and then returns his gaze to Professor Miller. It reads five more minutes of class. 

“Now it’s _your_ turn,” She almost yells, excitedly extending her arms out for emphasis, “You’ve all chosen the performing arts programme for a reason, now’s the time to show me what you’ve got.”

Louis quirks an eyebrow inquiringly.

“I want you to choose any memorable scene and recreate it here on our stage. Just a little performance—something with intriguing characters, some dynamic, a good bit of dialogue,” She muses, shaking her head casually with a hand on her hip, “I’m thinking, three to four minutes a piece?”

Almost immediately, Louis’ taken back through every memorable moment in film he’d seen in his vast eighteen years of life. He remembers Zayn shrieking in terror when Jack died, Zayn laughing hysterically when Lebowski bathed with a ferret, Zayn bawling for hours after the Marley fiasco of ’09, and— _all right_ , maybe it was Zayn who made the films especially memorable in the first place.

Somehow, Louis’ tangent lands him back in graduating year, when he was confused and awkward yet still at the pinnacle of the education ladder—that until university, which is basically going back to the bottom rung. He was just finding himself in the world of performing arts, decided to mention his interest to Zayn, and had the boy practically _force_ him to audition for the school’s musical the very next day. 

To be fair, Louis wouldn’t have done it if the musical hadn’t held one of his most favourite moments in film. He had been just shy of three lines into his audition when the two drama teachers had burst out in hysterics.

Apparently, making a one-sided advance on (a nonexistent) Sandy while in a (even more nonexistent) convertible had been _it_. So, he had played Danny in his school’s surprisingly decent production of Grease, and—

A hand flies up in Louis’ peripheral.

It’s one of the blokes that were asleep, Louis supposes, judging by the way the bloke’s mates snicker and the elbow to the gut that follows, “A scene from any medium? Like, not just films? Literature too? And plays?” he asks, his voice like tinsel. It’s the kind of voice that belongs on the radio.

Louis’ eyes flick back to his professor when she grins. Running a hand through her light brown hair, she nods far too enthusiastically, “Great point, Nick. Any scene you’d like, from anywhere you’d like.”

Nick turns back to his mates muttering something defensive about his _great point_ , and Professor Miller adds, “Have your small groups chosen before next class. Three, four—partners, even.”

The bell rings.

“Have a lovely afternoon, everyone!” She cheers, the entire class standing up around Louis, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he watches his peers file out of the classroom in predetermined cliques, seemingly unfazed.

Louis stands up slowly. He tucks his books into his bag. He can hear Professor Miller calling goodbye to Nick and his mates, and the door opening and shutting behind him.

Sure, Louis thinks to himself, _sure_ he knew that it was only a matter of time before he’d have a group project, but it doesn’t mean he’s ready for it.

He’s entirely _unready_ , to be frank, as he scoops up his bag and heads toward the door. He keeps his eyes trained downward, and when he rounds the table, there’s a pullover in his face.

Oh _._ “ _Oh_ ,” Louis startles, and Niall laughs wholeheartedly. With the crisis of dropping everything he owns narrowly avoided, Louis can safely roll his eyes at the blond, “Again?” he drones.

Niall’s unfazed, “You’re jumpy.” he says, and then leans casually against the tabletop.

“I know.” Louis runs his fingers through his fringe. Niall watches him, smirking slightly and chewing loudly on a piece of gum. He looks cooler than half the population of England right now. And he’s looking at Louis like he’s knows it.

“Stop looking at me like that.” Why isn’t Louis cool?

“Like what?” Niall’s asks, smiling so wide Louis knows it’s a matter of seconds before the gum falls out of his mouth. Louis rolls his eyes again. It’s the safest method of communicating, he finds.

“Do you need something?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“I have a proposition.”

Louis loosely crosses his arms then, squinting at him, _challenging_ him, and hitches his bag farther up his shoulder. The door continues to open and close from across the room as a group of girls make their way into the hallway outside.

“Which is?” Louis prods.

“D’ya wanna be my partner?” He doesn’t even bat an eyelash. Louis’ taken back. Like, he actually leans against the table. No squint to be seen. Maybe somewhere in his cloudy mind he expected this, but to _actually_ have it come out of Niall’s mouth? Not Louis-provoked?

Louis has been reduced to a sputtering mess.

“I mean, yeah? If you’d like to?” Louis says, never once sounding more unsure in his entire life.

Niall pushes off of the blackboard, his award-winning grin back on his thin lips and his coursework almost falling from his grip, “Would you like to start working on it now, then? Maybe over lunch?”

Louis stops again. And then spends way too much time mentally check-listing his plans for the day before realizing that he never has any _._ The blond begins to laugh again, almost as if he _already_ knows, but, “Hmm, I think I might be free for lunch?” Louis deliberates, slowly and uncertainly, just to take the piss.

Niall scoffs before springing forward, “Ten-four, director.” he smirks, gripping Louis’ bicep and practically prancing towards the exit.

“I’m beginning to think you’ve just chosen me for my stage history,” Louis huffs, his feet skidding across the linoleum. The blond grabs a hold of the door and pins it open with his leg, Louis continues, “Pitiful for you, really. I mean—my acting skills are a little rusty.” 

Now Niall’s the one to roll his eyes, nodding towards the hallway and smacking Louis’ shoulder lightly.

“I can’t believe you would accuse me of that, Louis.”

**☆**

“I can’t believe you would ask me to lunch and not know where you’re going, Niall.”

Niall stops walking for just long enough to stare at Louis pointedly.

They really hadn’t been walking for that long, not even half the distance to the nearest tube stop, but maybe Louis’ an adamant complainer and he rather likes to push people’s buttons, _Niall’s_ buttons, “It’s about to rain, Niall.” he pouts.

That part is rather true. Since leaving the campus, the public had thinned out considerably and the sky had changed from a mere depressing grey to an overpoweringly depressing blue-grey. If it weren’t so cold and gusty, _maybe_ the swirling display overhead could have been considered poetic.

The blond drops his head. He glares at Louis lazily, “Again, why all the doubt?” he fusses, mock offended, just as a gust of wind ruffles up his dirty blond hair, “Partners are supposed to have _trust_.”

Louis did have trust in Niall. It ended swiftly when the fronts of his shoes got wet.

A car passes by on the street behind him, and Niall’s eyes follow it, “I swear, Louis, this is—”

Niall stops.

Louis stops too.

Following the blond’s line of sight to nothing but more brick façades, “What are you…” Louis lets his thought taper off.

Luckily, Niall finishes it. “We’re here.” He all but screams, pointing excitedly to a small, bricked building about five shops down the street. Louis squints at the set of bay windows and red doors until he swears he feels warmth building in his chest (and it’s not even the abundance of homey-looking potted plants).

“Oi!” He calls out to Niall, who is already a good seven strides down the pavement and waving hurriedly at Louis to follow, “Wait up, maybe?”

When Louis runs up beside the blond, the strap of his bag falling into the crook of his elbow, Niall is beaming like a child. His chest is rising and falling just as quickly as Louis’ when he gasps, “I’m so excited for this.”

Louis doesn’t even have time to swat the blond’s arm before he’s being dragged down the remaining stretch of pavement, and through the set of chiming red doors.

The atmosphere changes around the two boys instantly, the smell of rain being replaced by the sugary scent of cakes and pies and scones, for all he knows. Louis might never want to leave.

“Is here okay?” The blond is gesturing to a round two-seater table sat beside one of the bay windows. Louis nods quickly, stepping towards it, and the corners of the blond’s eyes crinkle. Louis’ bag is pressed against his ankles when they sit down.

It’s funny. Having never been in this cafe before, Louis feels like he’s been here before. It’s the charm of the place—from the lacey drapes to the wooden ordering counter and back, it’s warm and quaint and calming. It’s unacceptably homey.

It’s lovely.

The blond tugs at the menus tucked behind the yellow potted flower, and then splays one out in front of Louis. They read in silence.

Barely ten seconds have passed before Louis stops. With his lip tugged in between his teeth, he steals a quick look at the blond. His lively eyes are scanning back and forth across the lists and lists of cursive pastries, eyebrows waggling when he turns the laminated page in his hands.

Louis can’t help but notice the way the light from the street is casting through the rain-slick window and onto the side the of boy’s face, little raindrop-shaped shadows littered on his skin. When the blond scrunches up his nose and tilts his head a little, Louis can see the reflection of the glass in his eyes, all round and skewed and _glistening_ —

Louis looks down the second Niall looks up.

“Figure out what you want yet, bro?” Niall asks.

Louis figures out two things all at once; one, he hasn’t even finished reading the beverages section; and two, he might just be a bigger idiot than he had originally thought.

“Louis?” What even is an _éclair au chocolat_? _Chocolat_ is chocolate, right? Like, a French cognate. _God, what even is a French cognate?_ “Hey, you’re supposed to unresponsive after the food.”

Another silent moment passes, and Louis is seriously considering either making a deal with the devil or speed-reading the entire menu in a span of four seconds—whichever’s less obvious—but then he catches the blond’s eyebrows raising curiously, and it’s absolutely too late to do _anything_.

Louis likes chocolate. “I’m thinking, éclair au chocolat?” His pronunciation is god awful, but the blond doesn’t seem to mind. He practically snorts into his menu, corners of his eyes crinkling again.

“Wise choice. Let’s make it two. Care for a vanilla milkshake to wash it down?”

Louis’ so thankful he could cry. There are no devils or speed-reading required when Louis agrees, “Two milkshakes and two éclairs, then. Wonderful.”

“Was that a double vanilla shake and éclair, I heard?”

Louis startles immediately, clasping a hand over his mouth as a short brunette girl steps up to their table. She’s got on all black clothing under a light green apron that nearly reaches her knees, her teeth stark white as she grins down at them. Their brightness balances out the dark amber shades of her eyes, her hair tousled sweetly on top of her head, with a few stray pieces dangling over her ears.

She just looks absolutely—if Louis knows anything about this kind of stuff at all— _adorable_. If this were Louis’ cup of tea, he’d been swooning.

“You heard correctly.” Louis tells her once he’s sheepishly withdrawn his all signs of shock, and Niall hasn’t even taken his eyes off his hands yet. He’s completely oblivious to their waitress’ entrance as he rounds up the menus and knocks them against the wooden tabletop, straightening them out into a neat pile.

Louis kicks Niall’s shin under the table.

“Can I get you anything else?” She grins pleasantly as Niall looks up at her, eyes flicking back and forth between the two boys.

Louis immediately looks to Niall for a reply, as he’s been doing the talking thus far and Niall definitely knows English too, but the blond’s absolutely, one hundred percent _gawking_ at her. Like, the mouth hung open, eyes glossy, fingers twitching against the wood, kind of gawking. Louis feels quite sorry for her. Poor—his eyes find the small black lettering—Cassandra.

_Poor, sweet Cassandra._

“No, thank you,” Louis chimes in clumsily, “Just that would be great.”

Her eyes flick back and forth between the two boys once more, a rosy shade flushing her cheeks. She nods, and then shoves her notepad back into her apron pocket, disappearing into the sea of customers.

Louis waits a good four and a half seconds before he slaps the life out of Niall’s arm.

“ _Fuck,_ why—”

“What was hell was _that_?” Louis interrupts him, practically whisper-yelling as he leans over the table. Niall’s jaw falls open, but no sound escapes. Louis takes it as permission to take the blond’s head in his hands, shaking him wildly. “You’re not even going to comment on what just happened?”

Niall yanks himself free from Louis’ grasp, his smile shameless and wider than ever, “ _Fuck_ , nothing happened!” he stresses.

Louis lowers his gaze, completely unconvinced. “I think you walked through the first twenty years of marriage just by staring at her.”

Niall pauses, shuts his eyes, and then. Face palms onto table. “Oh my _god_ —do you think she noticed? Was it that bad?”

Louis’ chest wrings with laughter. “I feel hit on right now.”

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Niall’s laughing so hard his eyes are watering, or maybe he’s actually crying, “I basically live here, _why_ haven’t I seen her before?” 

“Maybe Cassandra’s new.” Louis muses tauntingly, tracing the embroidered logo on the sleeve of Niall’s pullover.

Niall sits up then, “ _Cassandra_ ,” he drawls dreamily, eyes fluttering shut as his chin connects with the palm of his hand. Louis rolls his eyes amicably, until he catches something in his peripheral.

He stops. 

Scribbled across the tabletop are hundreds of written names and messages, rubbed away and crisp, overlapping and complimenting one another. He can see bits and pieces of people’s handwriting peaking out from in between his fingers.

_Luke + Angela._

_Summer 2003._

_Jason P._

_“_ Oi _,_ what are these?”

The blond’s hand drops from his chin at the sound of his name. His eyebrows furrow when he leans forward into the table. “What are what?” He asks, inquisitively.

“These.” Louis repeats, fingers trailing the black ink.

A moment passes. “Oh. The cafe’s owner lets her customers sign the tables. She’s been doing it long before we even found this gem,” Niall explains, sitting back in his chair nonchalantly, “Tourists and couples. Mostly couples, though.”

_Sarah + Antony._

_C &M forever. _

Louis laughs lightly _._ “What happens when R and M aren’t forever?”

Niall scoffs into the back of his hand. “What a pessimistic question.”

Louis’ hand flattens on the wooden tabletop. “Seriously, though? I bet C is hating himself right now for ignoring the signs and M is crying himself to sleep because he can’t even get a bloody doughnut without thinking about C and why— _why_ would anyone ever do that to themselves?”

Niall blinks. “Maybe M should just go to a different table.”

Louis looks down at the words again, he exhales, “I mean,” his hands are flying as he speaks, “I don’t get why people do that. Carve trees, put a lock on a fence, sign tables— _don’t get me started_ on matching tattoos.”

The blond’s head has fallen onto his palm, Cassandra long forgotten as he eyes Louis incredulously. He looks genuinely amused.

“What’s there to get?” He says.

Louis shakes his head. “I just mean, why do it?”

Niall pauses for a second, before shrugging, “I think everyone’s a sucker for documenting when they were happiest,” the rain picks up considerably outside the window, a white layer of mist spreading across the cracked pavement just by the force alone, “Yeah, it sucks when it goes wrong, but it was also going _right_ for a while. And I think that’s worth something.”

Louis looks across the table, also pausing for a moment, “Maybe.”

Niall’s covers his mouth in an instant, scoffing into his palm, “Everyone’s got their opinion,” he sits back in his chair, thunder claps when he continues, “For the record, I’m sure C and M are happily married in Dorset with twelve grandchildren or something. Not sure they’re gay men, though.”

Louis looks up in an instant. He hadn’t realized he’d talked about them as men. And instead of neutralizing his rant— “We’re all a little gay, aren’t we?” Louis settles.

Niall scoffs loudly, “Oh my god.” he exhales, rolling his eyes.

Louis’ grinning too. So much so, he doesn’t notice Cassandra step up to the table.

“And here are your orders,” She announces, her hands full with two trays, balancing them effortlessly on her open palms. Both boys turn her way, meeting her cheery gaze, “Sorry for the wait.”

“No bother.” Louis tells her.

She grins again, setting the two plates down onto the table with ease. Louis’ eyes follow her movements unwillingly, unable to look away from the food, not even to thank her.

The milkshakes are a perfect shade of beige and smell of sugar, topped with a dollop of whipped cream and a bright, red cherry. As for the two pastries, they’re long and golden brown and still warm, topped with a thick layer of drizzled chocolate.

When Louis glances back up, Niall is still gazing at Cassandra like he can’t see anything else. Maybe there actually _isn’t_ a little gay in this one.

Louis’ lips part to thank her, but— “Thanks so much, these look amazing.” the blond interrupts him.

She directs her attention towards Niall. Louis swears he sees her shadowy eyes sparkle, “I’ll tell that to the bakers. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

“Will do.” Niall agrees.

She looks vivid and confident and positively trained as she maneuvers her way back through the standing costumers and tables, notepad in hand and smile on cue as she strolls up to another table. She definitely isn’t new.

Louis turns back to Niall, ready to take the piss, but the blond’s already dragged his fork through the dough and cut off a piece, stabbing it with his fork.

“Go on, then,” Niall slurs through a full mouth, gesturing towards to Louis’ motionless hand, “I wanna see this.”

Louis rolls his eyes, cutting off a piece of his own. He bites the doughy pastry off the fork.

“Oh, bloody _hell_.”

**☆**

By the time both trays are empty and both their bellies are pleasantly, pleasantly full, Louis has laughed harder than he has in ages and learned so many useless facts that he can’t even remember his name. 

Somewhere amongst the tasteful tidbits and guttural glee, Niall was born in an Irish town called Mullingar, grew up and studied until his graduation. He’s got one older brother called Greg who’s just completed his doctorate in medicine, and maybe Niall was supposed to be a physician as well, but his interest has always been in the arts. After graduating, he packed up and shoved off to England to study performing arts (Louis’ kidding, Niall had moved respectably and timely, but maybe Louis likes the image of Niall distressfully fleeing his parents’ unforgiving hold to become an actor). Other than that, he’s single and lonely and a huge fan of footie—which might’ve made Louis’ heart flutter—but he’s too messy for a girlfriend and too uncoordinated for sports (Louis might’ve also related to this, Louis would never allow himself to play sports).

They’re sitting in a comfortable silence when Niall finally peers down at his watch. Then, promptly facepalms unto it.

“ _For god’s sake_ , it’s half two. Should we actually talk about our project?” He says pitifully.

Louis snorts into the back of his hand, checking the time on his mobile for no reason. “Right. That’s what we came for, isn’t it?” The blond mimics his reaction and Louis opens up a search bar on his mobile. It takes him at least three tries to properly spell the four simple words, _pathetic_ , all whilst learning he’s apparently immensely illiterate when someone is watching him type. Duly noted.

Louis slides the mobile across the light wood tabletop once it’s loaded up, and grins proudly. “I was thinking we could do _this_.” He says tentatively.

The corner of Niall’s mouth quirks upwards before he looks down at the illuminated screen. Leaning over the table and scooping up Louis’ mobile, his eyes light up.

“Oh my god _, yes_.”

☆

Four days of class work periods later, Louis is finally stepping foot into the university’s theatre, and—

“Oh, _fuck_.”

It hits him a lot harder than it probably should have.

The first things Louis notices are the familiar red curtains suspended from metal rafters. It’s the original set, back from the day the theatre was built, and there had been a petition to replace them back in first year, but the majority agreed that the wear and tear were far too nostalgic to get rid of. That, and maybe the arts kids quite liked their scrawled initials to stay a part of the theatre for as long as possible. (Louis’, too.)

Next come the rows and rows of seats spreading all the way to the back of the building, which are sporting the same iconic colour. They unfold like a small city before him, all symmetrical and pattern-like and abundant from the floor all the way up to the balconies. And they might just be surprisingly more comfortable than they look. (Louis spent an all-nighter or two). (Or five).

And finally, with a fulfilled sigh, his eyes roam over to the main attraction itself, and he swears he feels butterflies like a childhood crush—the _stage_.

The wooden platform is slightly darker than Louis remembers, polished to the point where Louis can see the reflection of his shoes in the side paneling as he walks by. It’s large and sturdy and so familiar it hurts, to the point where Louis’ knows every dent and every nick and he could probably navigate it blindfolded if he tried.

He _missed_ the theatre, is what he’s trying to say.

But he doesn’t miss Niall rambling in his ear about the atmosphere and the memories and the grandeur long after the door is shut behind the group of students, the blond’s grip bruising Louis forearm with sheer excitement alone.

Louis wastes no time plastering his hand over the blond’s mouth.

“Louis— _ngh_ —”

Louis tightens his grip. “Not another word unless you’re serving me Bourbon.” Louis says sternly, shucking off his bag with his free hand. They’ve only got the rest of the month in the theatre before it’s taken over by the Christmas musical, and Louis would love to use his time wisely. Especially if it means he can boss Niall around.

“One sec,” Louis unclasps his bag, scouring through the pockets for their scripts. He continues to muzzle Niall until he finds them, yanking out the papers with _Nialler + Louis_ written at the top in at least five different colours. He drops his hand. “Here.”

Niall steps backward in a rush, and “Bossy,” he whines, the corners of his mouth curving upwards, before he practically skipping towards the stage’s staircase, “C’mon, Mr. Torrance!”

Not long after that, the boys find a cozy spot somewhere near stage right, and the room is filled with the rummaging of props and the proclamation of lines.

They’ve got a mad tea party beside the door and a fatherly dark lord in one of the balconies, a ballroom-dancing beast center stage and a zombie apocalypse in one of the rows. There are girl groups, and boy groups, and mixes of both, scattered amongst duos and solos and—it’s all just enthusiastically loud and overly animated and Louis feels at home. 

The time ticks by like it’s on fast-forward; Niall’s laugh burned into Louis memory as the two throw scripted banter back and forth. Probably three quarters through the class, they get comfortable enough to toss the scripts and go on like they’re writing the lines themselves.

Louis can’t wipe the delirious gleam out of his eye even if he tries, relishing in the sheer fun of it all, and maybe that’s just it. Being a drama student doesn’t feel like work, it’s so bloody _fun_ to dive into character and become someone you’re not.

Soon enough, though, Professor Miller announces that it’s the end of class and everyone begins to rally up their group members. As for Louis, he’d been swept away ten minutes prior by a group of four girls that will be performing the phone call scene from Mean Girls.

Like most of Louis’ conundrums, it started off slow. He was in the middle of his line when a faint, frustrated groan traveled to him from across the room. He barely noticed it, didn’t think much of it either, until the frustrated groans were accompanied by an array of horrifyingly realistic coughs. Like, real gut-wrenchingly distracting coughs, and Louis actually had to stop because he genuinely thought one of the girls was _dying_.

 _Louis Tomlinson saves young aspiring actress from choking on fruity smoothie._ That had a nice ring to it, right?

Louis is not saying that the idea of selfless heroism was driving him when he hopped off the stage and padded over to the group of girls, but it definitely was.

“Is everything okay?” He had asked, right as Youngest Alice Saunders chucked her script at the carpet, no choking in sight. _Sigh_. (She’s Youngest Alice Saunders because her birthday is on the twenty-ninth of December, Louis’ is on the twenty-fourth, making her the youngest in the programme).

“She’s fine. Just can’t get her line with the fake cough right.” A bronze-skinned girl had giggled, nodding off towards Youngest Alice, who had turned towards the wall and promptly began smacking her head against it.

Then Louis just, “Can I do anything to help?” and all right, maybe _he_ had swept himself away.

So, it’s been at least ten minutes and he’s still sat on the floor with the girls, surrounded by papers, knapsacks, and a rainbow of highlighters, listening to Youngest Alice read-through her part of the script for the thousandth time.

“All right,” Louis muses once she’s looking at him expectantly, but she’s also got this expression, this _oh no_ look to her face, and Louis has to try really hard not to laugh, “Maybe try to make it a little more fake sounding this time, yeah? Inducing the audience to throw up probably isn’t your best bet.”

Youngest Alice scrubs her face with her small hands. “ _Oh my god_ , okay, yeah,” She nods, barking a laugh into her palms that has Louis covering his mouth. “Let me try that again. No throwing up. Got it.”

Louis grins at her and then leans back onto his outspread hands, nodding encouragingly when her eyes flick by his for a split second, round and timid and weary.

Then, something changes.

Like the great actress Louis knows she is, her fear is immediately replaced by the aura of character. Ditzy eyes, parted lips, and all, she assumes her position, placing one open hand by her ear where a mobile should be, and balling up the other in front of her mouth before she begins. And—it’s _perfect._

Louis practically screams in delight when finishes her line, lunging forward at him and grabbing his shoulders in earnest, “Was that okay, Louis?” she shakes him wildly, her smile bright like her nails, “Oh _god_ , that sounded so fake!”

Louis snorts into the back of his hand, he’s sure he’s smiling just as wide as she is, “No, it was great! The cough in the film is supposed to sound fake!”

Youngest Alice looks unconvinced, though, her hands release Louis in one hasty movement. She brackets her face like a visor instead, eyes wide, “What if it sounded _overly_ fake, oh god—oh _no_.”

“Alice!” Louis doesn’t even bat an eyelash before he takes her shoulders between his hands, “It sounded amazing. I swear. Ten out of ten across the board.”

A moment passes.

“Yeah?” She asks.

“Absolutely.”

“God, all right. Thank you _so_ much.” Youngest Alice says, breathing a sign of relief, and Louis swears she’s glowing gold like her hair.

“Glad we could tackle it.” Louis begins but, “Really, though!” The bronze-skinned girl pipes in, the rest of the girls standing up around Louis and Youngest Alice. Purse strung over her shoulders, she adds, “You’re magic. I’ve been listening to that bloody cough for the past four days.”

Louis stands to his feet in a rush that almost has him falling over. His entire left foot is asleep. “Thanks,” Louis chuckles, steadying himself and offering his hand to Youngest Alice, “Again, I’m glad.”

The girls silent dismiss themselves, heading towards the theatre’s doors, and when Louis turns back around, there’s a boy hollering at him in earnest from the stage.

“Your credit’s fine, Mr. Torrance.” Niall jests, proper posh, grinning and clasping a nonexistent bottle. There are students funneling in between them, cutting off their view of each other for small moments here and there, and they should totally be packing up their kit too, but Louis doesn’t break the scene.

He furrows his eyebrows instead. “That’s swell. I like you, Lloyd! I always liked you,” Louis muses and he slides his imaginary wallet back into the pocket of his chinos, “You were always the best of them. Best goddamned bartender from Timbuktu to Portland, Maine,” he raises his imaginary glass of Bourbon and lowers his voice, leaning in towards Niall, all smug and squinty, “Portland, Oregon for that matter.”

Niall barks out a laugh and bounds off the stage in a rush that nearly has him hospitalized, closing the distance between them in seconds. His smile is nowhere to be found when he reenters Louis’ space.

 _“_ Thank you for saying so,” Strands of blond flop down into the boy’s eyes as he nods pompously, which he then whisks away with a sharp brush of his hand, “Here’s _Johnny_ —”

“I hope that wasn’t Mr. Horan that just jumped off the stage.”

He might as well have been hospitalized, Professor Miller’s about to send him there, “Why, _I_? No way, Mills.” Niall shrugs nonchalantly while popping upright, Professor Miller crossing her arms over her chest as she crosses the carpet, “I wouldn’t ever disrespect an establishment like that.”

She eyes Louis for a brief moment before redirecting her eyes to the brazen culprit. She absolutely can’t hide the smirk that spreads across her ruby coloured lips. “Oh. Well, my apologies, Niall,” She quips as she _sashays_ between the boys, patting Niall on the shoulder solemnly, “Just don’t break your ankles, love. I’m squeamish.”

“Will do,” Niall assures her, before confusing himself, “Or… will _not_ do.”

Professor Miller laughs loudly, adjusting her scarf with bright yellow nails.

There’s a pause.

As she continues to smile humbly at the two boys, Niall tugs at the rolled up scripts in his back pocket, opting to shove them into Louis’ bag, and it’s the last bag standing. Louis looks around. He didn’t even notice the theatre had emptied.

When he looks back, Professor Miller is leaning coolly against the stage and Niall’s tossing his bag strap over Louis’ shoulder for him. He nods, “Right. Arch?” and nudges Louis’ shoulder in the direction of the doors.

“Sure,” Louis offers Professor Miller a smile before allowing himself to be dragged by the blond—when is he not? “See you next class, Prof Miller.”

She grins back. “Bye, loves.”

Louis’ nearly through the doorway when the same voice stops him.

“Actually, wait—Louis?”

Louis spins on his heels in response to his name, holding the door open with his outstretched knee. He waits politely until she continues, her eyes practically shining in the afternoon sunlight, “Mind staying around for a second?”

That’s not what Louis was expecting. In fact, as she continues to peer at him excitedly, Niall already halfway down the hallway, he’s not sure what he was expecting at all.

But then he’s smiling lightly, and “Oi, Niall! I’ll meet you there!” he calls out, pulling his knee away from the door.

☆

Louis never really did see the final scene of Corpse Bride _._ Or any of it, for that matter.

The show was barely two weeks away when he had begun to unwind. Just about everything other than the musical was falling apart, but more often than not, he just couldn’t seem to get out of bed.

He missed rehearsals, only a few at first, until he had essentially vanished. _Sure_ , he felt like a failure—having become such a vital part of the musical’s creation, gratefully so, and then to just disappear—but they were an insanely talented group of students and staff, and well. He was never supposed to have that much say, anyway.

And the musical had turned out great, according to Zayn, who had gone alone to see the musical after Louis’d begged to stay home. Louis was a first year, turned makeshift director, turned mad—but he doesn’t want to talk about why. He doesn’t think he’ll ever want to talk about why.

It’s over.

Or, at least it was.

“There’s my boy crazy hooligan,” Zayn shouts enthusiastically from the kitchen as Louis shuts the door behind himself, his bag falling to the floor beside his shoes, “I ringed you and you didn’t pick up. I was about to go crazy myself.”

Sunlight is peeking in through the large windows, illuminating the tiny specks of dust that travel from one side of the living room to the other. Everything is so bright and warm, relaxed and unrelenting; as if everything the world has to throw at Louis might just become relevant the moment the door is shut. Only it doesn’t. It just hits home.

“Yeah.” Louis says lamely, and when Zayn rounds the corner, he’s still rambling, eyes pinned downwards on the glossy screen of his mobile.

“Can you imagine that?” Zayn gasps incessantly, “Have we really gotten to the point where _I’m_ overly attached? _Me_?”

He’s got on his horrid work uniform—stale black polo that’s beginning to become too small, worn black trousers that are ripped at the knees and thighs, and a blue nameplate pinned over his heart. Louis studies every part of him, from the sharp edges of his shoulders to the sharper edges of his hips, and back, and he is suddenly reminded of the day Zayn came bounding back to the flat with the news of his new job. They had laughed in unison for hours at the hideousness of the dress code, the ridiculousness of the hours, the overt chillness of the employees—but it hadn’t deterred the boy. Nothing could.

“Is it cold out there, Tommo?” Louis can still feel the stitched _Avalanche Records_ logo against his fingertips.

“It’s…” Louis turns towards the door, as if staring at the wooden slab will somehow help him remember the walk up, but the movement only disorients him. It’s like he just got up too fast and can’t find his footing, “It’s the same as yesterday, I guess.” he says.

The boy groans and crouches down at the pile of shoes beside the door. He pockets his mobile, “ _God_ , I’d give my right arm to never ride that damn bus ever again,” he pauses, thoughtfully eyeing the swallow inked below his pinky, “No, wait, my left arm. I’m quite fond of that little guy.”

He’s _still_ not looking Louis in the eyes, too preoccupied by the set of shoes he’s unlacing, but Louis doesn’t try to get his attention. Louis doesn’t want it, is the thing; he knows the boy will see right through him, right through the front he’ll put up—but then Louis’ staring into the set of familiar deep brown eyes and it’s absolutely, positively too late.

The boy’s on him. Hands, eyes, attention. “What the fuck’s up with you?” Zayn says.

Louis stares dumbly at the small shadows of his eyelashes, sitting prettily on the apples of his cheeks. The boy’s fingertips dig fervently into Louis’ collarbones, but he doesn’t dare look the boy in the eyes, doesn’t say a word either. 

So, naturally, Zayn does. “Is this about Niall? Did he break your heart?”

Louis eyes flick up in an instant. If anything, him canceling the Arch date broke _Niall’s_ heart. “No—”

“Because I _swear_ ,” Zayn rips his hands from Louis, throwing them about wildly, outrageously, “I will _not_ hesitate in selling him the worst Irish folk records we own. And to think I liked the bloke! All the talk of _oceans_ —you talked about him for, what, like four whole minutes?”

“Zayn—”

“What a tosser, you think you’d know a guy—”

“Zayn!” Louis’ hands come down like bricks on the boy’s shoulders, knocking him backwards and bringing his relentless ranting to an end, “It’s not about him, my god.” Louis exhales.

Zayn brushes off his shoulders. “What is it, then?” He demands.

Louis slowly steps around the boy and plods into the kitchen. He’s got one foot past the fridge when he hears the boy’s voice again, distant and confused.

“Okay, sick. Not like we were talking—”

“I got asked to direct this year’s musical.”

A set of keys hits to the floor in the foyer.

 _And, here he goes_. “It’s, like—the actual director. Like, not just kind of the director, or an avid helper, or whatever—I am _The Director_. Authoritative caps and all, and I want to cry.” Louis says to the stool as clambers he onto it.

Somehow, the boy is sprinting through the doorway before he even steadies himself.

Zayn isn’t even trying to hide the widening of his eyes. “ _Shit_ , wow—I mean, at least you’re not expected to have linguistic skills, because,” Louis facepalms onto the granite worktop, “ _Okay_ , I’m sorry, but you’ve got to lighten up. This is great news!”

Louis scrapes longingly at the glossy stone. “But _is_ it, though?”

He feels a hand on his back then, warm and persistent and reassuring. Against his will, Louis finds himself turning his head towards the boy, catching his eye as he takes a seat beside him.

“Yes, it is. Being in that theatre last year made you _so_ happy,” Zayn continues to draw nonsensical circles on Louis’ back, Louis only feels like it’s stirring him up, “Really, you were great for those students last year and now they want you back. Officially. There’s no way you can turn them down.” 

Louis shoves the boy’s hand away. “You make it sound like I’m heaps older, like I’m not going to be bossing around people I’m totally inferior to.”

“You didn’t seem to have a problem with it last year,” Louis opens his mouth to protest, but Zayn’s sat up straight, gawking, “Oh, _c’mon_. Since when does a person’s age dictate the work they can do? Being young is the coolest part. You’re the youngest in your programme and you have just as much talent as everyone else. More talent, if I’m honest, but I know you don’t like to—”

“Youngest Alice, actually.”

“—hear…” Zayn pauses there. There’s a thin line in between his eyebrows where they’ve furrowed, “Sorry?” he asks, plain.

“Youngest Alice. She’s the youngest in my programme.”

Zayn groans loudly and rubs his face with his hands. “I’m trying to make a point here.”

And the most infuriating part is, Louis can absolutely see that. Even if his words aren’t coming out right and his brain is full of static, he’s still hearing every word the boy is saying. And maybe somewhere in his mind the boy is making complete sense. 

Louis’ speaking before he even realizes he is. “You know what happened last time.” He says.

Zayn doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah, and?”

That takes Louis off guard a little, lifting his head slowly, “ _And_?” he echoes, furrowing his eyebrows at his best mate, “Do I have to remind you?” 

Zayn’s eyes bounce back and forth between Louis’ face and the wall behind him, like he’s bored, “You killed it, that’s what happened.”

Louis actually laughs, “I _disappeared_ two weeks before the show—” 

“Yeah, two weeks,” Zayn interrupts, standing from his stool and making a beeline for the fridge, “So they had to make final touches by themselves, poor them,” he grabs a bottle of water from a shelf, not even bothering to look Louis’ way, “You gave them your little fresher heart and soul for _three months_ —no wonder they want your arse back, properly too.”

Louis halfway through an eye roll when Zayn throws his hand out, “That’s it. Self-pity looks horrible on you.” he loops his arm through Louis’, dragging his body with him as he strolls into the foyer.

Louis whimpers childishly the entire way.

Zayn seems to block it out. “Now, I’ve got to head out to work,” He narrates, as if Louis really is a child, “But there’s one thing I need to say before I do.”

Zayn lets go of Louis’ shoulders and grips the doorknob, yanking it open and pining it there with an outstretched knee. Louis looks up at him through heavy eyelids. He doesn’t protest, because he knows Zayn will continue anyway.

And Zayn does. “If you don’t do it,” He presses his palm to Louis’ bicep, lowering both his head and his voice, “I will personally kick your ass to America.”

Louis stares blankly at him.

Zayn pops upright, “Right, see you tonight.” before shutting the door behind himself.

**☆**

When the clock strikes half eleven the following Monday, the thought of an unwanted transatlantic holiday is honestly the only thing keeping Louis from running out of the theatre.

“Up for a shake there, Louis?” And Niall’s boyish good looks, of course.

“Nah, mate, not today,” Louis tells him when he’s stood up, gathering his notes and books into a pile on the plastic tabletop, a transcript with Jack’s face being placed on top of the stack, “I’m staying for a bit after class.”

He’s barely even moved a single sheet of paper before the blond slams his hand down on the table.

“ _Niall_!” Louis glances around hastily, embarrassingly, eyes wide and lips taut. The sharp sound wrings throughout the entirety of the theatre in a matter of seconds, ricocheting off both the walls of drywall and Louis’ throbbing skull. _God._ Louis didn’t even know the blond could make that much noise. Well.

Ten or so of their peers have turned to eye them curiously, making their way toward the door, still, “Since _when_ do you care more about your education than me?” Niall declares, just as loud, his eyebrows furrowed and jaw hanging open. He looks genuinely fazed by this—the priorities of someone he’s only properly known for less than a month—with one hand lying flat on the tabletop and the other planted furiously on his hip.

Louis squints his eyes at the blond. The blond’s gaze falls. They both eye the transcript.

“Don’t do it—”

The blond slams his hand down on Jack’s face.

“You did it, I can’t believe you did it.”

“ _I_ can’t believe _you_ did it.” Niall counters, finally tossing both hands up in despair. The pile of paper budges clear off the tabletop, clambering to the floor in a rush.

Louis runs his hand over his eyes in exasperation. Really, he’s holding back his laughter. “Dearest, don’t throw us away like that—” He tries, but “The _treachery_.” Niall sobs pitifully, hopping onto the table and crossing his legs.

Louis stares at him. Niall sighs loudly. Louis picks Jack up from the floor. 

“I hate you,” Louis scoffs on his way back up, dusting the lint off the poor man’s face, “Apologize to Jack.”

“Nope. Not until you give me an explanation.”

Louis’ stomach drops then. Well, it’s been dropping all morning—let alone for days.

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it.” Louis shrugs, and then turns back to his books, picking up his bag up from the floor. It hits the table with a thump that would’ve typically made Louis cringe, but the theatre is almost empty now.

It takes a good half a second for Niall’s expression to change to complete boredom. “Please, you said _my_ lines on accident this morning.”

“So? It was a little slip up, happens all the time.”

The blond laughs, loud and carefree as always, and then kicks out a chair for his feet his feet. He returns his eyes to Louis’ with a nonchalance that makes Louis want to scream.

“Yeah, and then you asked me why I was repeating you.”

Louis’ eyes flick back toward him. He almost cries. “It was… a simple misstep.”

“Not very good in the denial department, are we?” 

Louis looks away again, mostly because his eyes might actually be crying, and continues to pack his bag. For a second he thinks about telling Niall, but decides just as quickly how terrible of a decision that would be. Louis’ acting like a terrified toddler and Niall will take the piss for years.

Two packed books later, the atmosphere is rather Nialless and Louis is forced to look up. If Louis thought the blond’s stare was intense before, it’s deadly now, like he thinks it’ll actually work, and maybe it does—Louis’ mouth is open before he even realizes it.

“Prof Miller asked me to direct this year’s musical.” Louis exhales.

Niall smirks instantly, brushing his hair back with a fast hand. Louis wants to hit him. Or maybe himself. When did Niall become smarter than Louis thought?

“And?”

Louis stops mid-zip. “ _And_? That’s it.”

“Are you gonna do it?” Niall clarifies, and Louis stops again. See, that—he knows the answer to that one. He can hear Zayn’s voice in the back of his mind, poking him and prodding him and convincing him, but he isn’t saying a word. Maybe it’s the fear of finally hearing himself say the words, or his newfound hatred for Niall’s intelligence, but there is absolutely no sound coming from his throat.

How is he supposed to tell Professor Miller, when he can’t even tell Niall?

“Well—”

“Mr. Horan, are you sitting on the _table_?”

Niall practically falls into Louis when he dives towards the floor, straightening out his jumper with one hand and tucking in the chair with the other. It’s the fastest Niall’s ever moved, and Louis struggles to bite back a laugh, hearing the blond’s panicked yelp echo throughout the theatre.

With Niall’s head out of the way, the boys lock eyes with Professor Miller. She’s making her way across the stage, her hands on her hips and her eyes squinted maliciously at Niall, but the woman hasn’t got a malicious bone in her body. And she can’t hold a straight face to save her life.

Louis bursts out laughing the second she does, and “Y’know, children,” Niall begins, crossing his arms over his chest defensively as Louis doubles over, “For a uni professor and our very own drama hotshot, I expected better.”

“Oh, _c’mon_.” Louis gasps. His eyes are watering and his stomach’s aching. His bag falls back onto the table. Professor Miller’s hunched over too, using her scarf to cover her mouth as her laughter rings out.

“A little more passion, little less distraction,” Niall continues, entirely to himself, hand gestures and all, “The delivery was a little lacking too. Next time, I would suggest—”

“Shut up,” Louis interrupts him, once he’s gained enough composure to stand up straight, “Solid performance, I would say.”

“Thank you, Louis.” Professor Miller beams. She takes a seat on the edge of the stage, her hot pink converse dangling against the dark wood paneling. She crosses her ankles and straightens up her back. Louis grins back at her, shooting her a rightfully earned salute. Anyone that can break Niall’s cool just enough to have him yelping like a toddler deserves his respect. A standing ovation, even.

Professor Miller’s eyes flick back and forth between the two boys and the door excitedly, but she doesn’t say a word. This continues until Louis’ eyes start flicking back and forth between her and Niall, but Louis’ much less excited and a lot more confused. It’s like she’s waiting for Louis to say something. Which.

“So, what’s the hold up?” Louis has just basically rang her and then asked her why she’d rung him.

“Oh, I was just…” Louis turns to Niall and nods dismissively. He hopes the nod comes across as a subtle _get your arse of here_ but the blond just grins happily at him, as if it’s a cheery Sunday morning and Louis’ come to visit to talk about the latest footie game.

It takes a good six seconds for him to get the point. “Right!” Niall announces, and thankfully so, Louis was a second away from kicking his shin, “I’d best be off.”

He proceeds on to tuck the already tucked chair into the table, nudging Louis’ arm as he passes him, “I’ll text you later, bro,” and then heads towards the door. He gives Professor Miller a proper fist bump too.

“See you!” Professor Miller cheers, and bright light floods the theatre from the hallway outside. It creates a halo around the blond as he steps into the street outside, one that actually blinds Louis for a moment. He’s sure the image of Niall waving goodbye is burned into his vision. He closes his eyes and— _yes_ , there’s the brazen idiot.

The slam of the heavy door echoes across the space.

Louis turns back to find Professor Miller adjusting her printed scarf. It’s large and loud, littered with colourful elephants that look like they’re dancing around her neck. Somehow Louis feels a bit happier.

“Have you given any thought to it?” She asks him, and as much as Louis would quite like to set off a smoke grenade and flee the building during the diversion, he can’t ignore the sincerity in her voice.

He flashes a bright smile, saying, “Yes, actually. I’m so thankful that you’ve asked me to do this.” and, _no_ , there was absolutely _zero_ sincerity there. Like, so much so Louis probably sounded like he was trying to crack a joke. This _is_ a joke. Louis immediately backtracks still, opting to flash her another smile he hopes doesn’t look too strained.

She doesn’t seem to notice. “We want you to do this,” Louis’ gaze is glued to her gesticulating hands as she speaks, he can’t seem to look her in the eyes, “We’ve yet to have a student in the director’s chair, not properly anyway. We want you to be the first. You’re an incredible talent, Louis. You really are.”

Louis brushes off the compliment. “There’s tons of incredible talent all over this campus. You’re sure of all of this?”

Professor Miller chuckles softly, and her eyes are practically sparking under the yellow tinge of the ceiling lights. Louis feels unworthy.

“We saw you do such phenomenal work last year, and as a fresher _,_ mind you _._ We can’t wait to see what magic you’ll create this time around.”

Louis stumbles over her words more than once. Each word hits him with some sort of sickening feeling that in turn just equates one massive feeling of guilt _._ He begins to wonder whether she’s even speaking from her own experience. She can’t be. Louis didn’t even finish his work—it was nowhere near phenomenal, let alone _magic._ It’s just theatre talk that got a little skewed in the grapevine.

Professor Miller must’ve noticed a shift in the air, or maybe his eyebrows had begun to knit themselves together, because she crowds Louis’ space and clutches his elbow reassuringly.

“Louis, are you all right?” She whispers, like Louis some sort of spooked animal.

Maybe he is. “Just thankful.” Louis smiles at her, hitching his bag farther up his shoulder blade. She takes a few seconds just to look at him, studying him like a proper mother. Louis can hear his heartbeat in his ears.

Then, “What do you say?” she pauses, only to link her hands together and rest her chin on top of it, displaying the soundest pair of puppy dog eyes Louis thinks he’s ever seen. “The first meeting is Wednesday at half one. Can we be so lucky?”

He takes a long, deep breath and then quickly closes his eyes. This time, he sees Zayn.

“I’ll be there.” He tells her.


	3. Chapter Three

Standing in the threshold of the theatre’s doors, Louis feels quite like a terrified fresher all over again.

Drama students, music students, and dance students alike are all buzzing back and forth in front of him, meeting up with their respective cliques to do nothing more than yell over each other. Even the professors are circulating the room, shaking their heads and then nodding interestingly, as the monotonous murmur grows louder and louder.

He can do this.

He can absolutely do this.

Louis’ halfway out the door when a body collides with his chest.

“Oh, _shit_ —”

“ _Shit_ , sorry!”

She latches onto his arm, stabilizing the both of them, “Gotcha. Sorry,” she says, laughing lightly into her large knitted scarf as the door shuts behind her, “Wow, we’re like surround sound.”

Louis is laughing before he even looks up. When he does, a tall blonde woman is looking back at him. Or down at him, really.

Thankfully, she takes initiative when Louis doesn’t respond. “Anyway,” She opens, her voice strong and steady between them, “Are you on your way out? I’ll just step out of your way here.”

“Well, uh,” Louis’ eyes bounce back and forth between her face and the freedom behind her, as the room continues to roar around them. For some reason, he is speaking before he even realizes he is, “No—no, I’m staying.”

She stops sidestepping in an instant, her face lighting up in the dim lighting.

“Right, then,” She offers out her hand. Her nails are short and black, her eyes the colour of slate, matching her check shoes, “I’m Emilie. You?”

Louis takes it. “Louis.” He supplies, and the shaking of his hand quickly slows to a halt. They’re stood still, blocking the doorway with their hands interlocked, for at least five seconds before Emilie’s eyes widen.

She blinks. “Louis Tomlinson?”

Louis blinks back. “Yes?”

“As in, _Louis_ _Tomlinson_?”

“I don’t know if I deserve the _inflection_ , but yes?”

She blinks silently again, as if she has gone mute, and for a moment Louis wonders if he’s slipped into some weird twilight zone where everyone suddenly knows his name. But before he can offer up another questionable affirmation, Emilie is tossing her hands up in what seems to be utter delight, plastering her palm to her forehead.

“ _No way_ —this is so cool. I thought for sure I’d see you around, but to _meet_ you at the first meeting, like this,” Her gaze darts around in the room as she releases some sort of prolonged exhale, “This is so cool.”

“Yeah, you said that,” Louis exhales too, purely poking fun at the blonde, because _what_ is even going on? “But, uh, thank you. Even though I’m nothing to be excited about, really.”

She properly rolls her eyes at this, like they’ve been mates for years, “Yeah, _sure_ ,” or maybe she has no such thing as inner thoughts, “You’re all the PA first years talk about— _newbie_ _takes control of the musical in his first year_!” she’s projecting her voice like an old-time radio host, powerful stance and all, “You can’t make this shit up. So, I figured… why not give it a try myself?”

Louis absolutely cannot believe what he is hearing. And he doesn’t mean her ambition—Louis’ known her for all of thirty seconds now and he would gladly take orders from her, “Oh, so you’re…”

“First year performing arts? Overly optimistic?” She shifts her weight onto the other foot, and still, she towers over Louis, “Sure am. Moved from Leeds over summer holiday.”

As she flashes him another cool grin, Louis likes this, he likes _her_. She’s got the confidence Louis only wishes he had in first year.

“Right then, Emilie from Leeds,” He says, eyes bouncing back and forth between hers, “Let’s give it a try.”

**☆**

“Sweeney Todd!”

“Addams Family?”

“Wicked!”

“Matilda!”

“Coraline?”

“Les Mis!”

“Holy shit,” Emilie shouts over the noise, crossing her ankles as she sits on the wooden stage. Her chin is in her hand as she gazes around the lively theatre, mouth hanging open, “We’ve never going to get anything done—I can’t even hear myself think!” 

Louis laughs at that, because if you take away the blonde hair and the height, he’s looking at the spitting image of himself last year, “Just wait, it’ll happen!” he yells back.

Emilie leans in closer to Louis, as he stands with one palm on the stage’s edge, “ _What_ will happen?” she echoes, almost terrifyingly, “God—this is a nightmare!”

“Believe me, it’ll—” Louis stops himself there, wide-eyed and motionless. 

Because, well.

_That’s it._

Emilie doesn’t seem to notice the shift in the universe. “It’ll what? Get _quieter_?” She jests, rolling her eyes amicably as she runs her hands through her hair.

Louis turns toward her then, “Did you hear what you just said?” he shouts.

She blinks, smile growing. “No, it’s too loud in here for that!” 

“ _No_ , Emilie,” Louis grips her hands with the same enthusiasm as she’d did earlier, her expression freezes instantly, “You said it’s a _nightmare_.”

It takes all of two seconds for her eyes to light up.

“Oh my god.” She whispers.

Even in the bustling room, Louis hears her as clear as day. “Yell it,” He says, excitement building in his chest as he lets go of her hands and shoves at her knees, “Stand up and yell it!”

And if there was any part of Louis that doubted Emilie’s ability to yell into a crowd, it’s gone now. Like second nature, she clambers to her feet, glances down at Louis one last time, and then cups her mouth. With confidence running through her veins, she yells at the top of her lungs.

“ _The Nightmare Before Christmas_!”

To Louis’ utter delight, the room silences around her. She gasps down at Louis, amazement in her slate-coloured eyes.

And, “You can’t make this shit up.” Louis smiles.

**☆**

Louis and Niall have just won Oscars. No, wait, that’s not right—it’s not even Oscars season.

What they’ve _actually_ just won is the longest round of applause Louis thinks he’s ever heard, whistling and cheering included, accompanied by two overly enthusiastic thumbs up from Professor Miller.

And it was only the cherry on top of a great week. First Emilie from Leeds, then a triumphant fist bump from Zayn after he’d heard the news, and now— _now_ Louis and Niall are performing arts celebrities.

Let Louis explain.

The uncontrollable laughter had started with the group of boys sat at the back—Nick and his mates—when Niall popped up behind the bar’s worktop a little too early, try _two_ _lines_ early _,_ and Louis had to finish his performance pretending Niall wasn’t there.

See, without the magic of film and the tunnel vision of camera angles, there was no way Niall could just suddenly appear as the fictional bartender of Jack’s insanity without crouching under the worktop like an idiot (“Who’s idea was _that_?” Niall had belly laughed afterwards, “Couldn’t hear a thing. Absolutely awful. Worst two minutes of my life. I think I may be claustrophobic.”)

The laughter had then spread like wildfire when the two boys had begun to interact—perfected banter flying back and forth between them, Louis’ hand grasping the imaginary bourbon and taking sips from the air. They were reciting their lines like they had written them themselves, Louis replicating Jack’s mannerisms down to a T, until the desperate cry of Jack’s name from off stage, courtesy of Youngest Alice Saunders, closed the scene.

Then, the theatre had erupted in cheers.

So, it _feels_ like they’ve won Oscars. That’s it.

Nonetheless, they still strut down the pavement to Arch like proper celebrities. Louis might just put this on his resume.

**☆**

“Your mum’s going to kill you.”

“No…” Zayn is practically crawling on the cracked pavement, his palm gliding down its smooth fiberglass body as he inspects every dent, nick, and scratch, “She won’t.”

Louis shifts his weight onto his other foot, crossing his arms over his chest. “ _Yes_ , she will.” He argues, the wind hiking up his jacket. Across the lot, he makes eye contact with two important-looking middle-aged men, and immediately angles his body in the opposite direction.

“My mum’s not gonna find out,” Cars are flying by on the street just beyond the pavement’s edge. Overhead, small triangular flags flick back and forth in the wind, “And if she does,” Zayn pops upright, the pride clear on his sharp features and he kicks its front tire, “I’ve got a two hour head start.”

Louis laughs into the September air. Has he really become this much of a mother? “And since _when_ have you been into these?”

“Since the first day I stepped foot on the bus, you’ve just been too dramatic to notice,” and then Zayn is stepping back like he didn’t just blatantly insult Louis, his hand covering his mouth in awe, and he might have just wiped a tear from his amber-coloured eyes, “Look at her, Louis.”

Louis does.

He’s looking a used navy-blue motorcycle.

“Are you looking?” Zayn stifles his sobs, his voice rising considerably, “She’s _glistening_.”

“It’s obviously been cleaned recently, yes,” Louis deadpans, catching a glint of sunlight in the motorcycle’s polished chrome. And maybe the motorcycle is kind of nice for being a few years old, but maybe Louis also likes to take the piss, “And I’ve only been my usual level of dramatic, thank you.”

He can actually hear the boy’s breath catch. “First of all,” Zayn gasps, turning his torso toward Louis in one hasty movement, “ _She_ is clean, yes. And she’s also beautiful. Spectacular. Show-stopping. Sensational.”

Louis cranes his neck toward the motorcycle’s price sticker, “Three thousand five hundred pounds beautiful?” and then promptly slaps his hand over his mouth, nearly falling over entirely, “ _Three thousand five_ —fuck, we’re leaving. C’mon.”

Louis grabs for his arm but Zayn is already three steps ahead of him, it seems—as, “Excuse me, gentlemen!” Zayn shouts, and Louis, in the midst of rubbing away any of his fingerprints from the motorcycle’s body, looks up to see the two important men from before making their way across the paved lot.

“Shit—Zayn, stop—”

“Good afternoon! I am interested in this bike here—how can I get my hands on it?” Zayn asks the men, and as he blows the entirety of a semester’s tuition in one afternoon, Louis nearly faints into the pavement.

☆

It’s the first of October, and Louis is already knee deep in all things nightmarish.

Behind him, the visual art students are meeting with the set designer, measuring out the stage. Above him, the tech students are scanning along the rafters, counting the units. In front of him, the auditionees are talking amongst themselves awaiting their results, professors and volunteers circulating the room. 

The audition process had gone well too, _really_ well. With the final round of auditions taking place this morning, there are only a few tough decisions that Louis and the casting director have to make. Each student seemed to already have a role in mind, and that role always seemed to fit perfectly.

So, it’s a proper bustling set for having just started, everyone in tune with their specific job, as Louis sits on the stage’s edge beside Emilie. Looking around at gifted students from first year to final year, it is safe to say that the university is teeming with talent. Louis has a feeling that this year’s musical might just be the university’s best production yet.

Then, a loud bang rings out, and “ _Fuck_!” high-pitched voices scream from across the theatre, a group of blokes nearly knocking over a light stand but catching it last minute.

Louis turns back toward Emilie. She’s laughing into her sleeve.

_Well, he’ll see._

Still, “Yous all right over there?” Louis calls out, to which he receives three enthusiastic thumbs up, the last bloke screwing something back onto the stand.

Emilie exhales lightly, “Right, so like I was saying,” she begins, an array on headshots on the hardwood stage floor before them, handwritten notes lying in her lap, “I’m really pleased with Aiden and Millie’s auditions, there’s just something about their chemistry.”

She checks her notes. Did Louis mention that he recruited Emilie as assistant director? He checks his notes too, “Yeah, totally agree. I feel like they’re the perfect Jack and Sally.”

Emilie nods her head decidedly, chewing on her lip. She raises her fist. Louis fistbumps her. It was his easiest decision as director.

Louis scrawls down _Aiden_ and _Millie_ under Jack and Sally, before proceeding to scan down the rest the list. Below each character name is a scrawled student’s name, confident and definite, everything in working order.

“I think we’ve got ourselves a cast, Emilie.” He decides.

She looks up from her lap then, looking almost bewildered as she peers over at Louis. She, too, scans over the list in his hands, before covering her mouth with a ring-clad hand. There’s excitement in her eyes.

Louis is sure there’s excitement in his too. He gestures toward the crowd of students before them, nodding encouragingly, “Want to do the honours?”

The corner of Emilie’s mouth curls up into a smirk, gathering the headshots into a pile before standing up on the stage. Louis watches her, sliding forward as well. His feet dangle off the edge.

Then, “Hello, auditionees!” she shouts, loud and theatrical, and the room quiets around her once more. Louis loves it. She continues, “After a long and painful deliberation, the casting process has finally come to an end,” it’s not entirely true, but for such a dramatic line delivered to theatre students, Louis can’t say he didn’t expect the _oos_ and _aahs_ , “Now, our director is going to announce the roles to you.”

Louis raises his hand, the crowd’s eyes follow, “Hi, everyone,” he begins, “First, I’d just like to say a massive thank you to everyone who auditioned for this year’s musical. There were so many of you, I had to stop myself from just creating new roles, honestly.”

The room laughs in unison, as Emilie hops down and stands amongst the crowd. Louis continues, “But seriously, we are so lucky to have each and every one of you here,” the room holds its silence on that one, reality suddenly hitting them. It’s so quiet Louis isn’t sure if they’re still breathing. “So, with that said, let’s get on with it.”

There’s a collective exhale as Louis picks up his cast list, his eyes stopping on the first name.

“Right. The role of Mayor will be played by—”

The sound of metal cuts him off. Sunlight streaks into the theatre. And, as Louis hesitates, his head turning toward the door, the crowd does the same.

A second later, there’s a boy in the doorway.

With the glare of sunlight washing out his features, Louis can barely make out his features. But he can, however, make out that he’s tall and lean, messenger bag strung over one broad shoulder.

The door shuts behind him. Louis’ vision is still sun-struck when the bloke straightens out his shirt, seeming oblivious to his company. Louis shades his eyes with one hand, about to call out to him, until the boy quickly comes into focus.

Louis doesn’t say anything.

Because the boy is rosy, windblown, and young looking, the colour slowly returning to his skin as he shakes out his scruffy hair. Even from a distance, Louis can’t seem to take his eyes off of him—he’s got such a memorable face, and for that, Louis’ sure he’s never met the boy. He definitely would have remembered.

And someone must have made a noise, because then the boy’s head snaps toward the crowd, terror instantly clear on his features.

“ _Oh no,_ I’m sorry,” He blurts, nearly dropping his kit, his voice low and rumbling, “Shit, am I interrupting a meeting? I didn’t mean to—I’ll come back later.”

And before Louis can tell him otherwise, he’s gone, rushing back through the door like he’d never came in at all.

**☆**

Louis can barely hear himself think over the triumphant roar of the room, his newly-announced cast already looking over their scripts with their scene partners.

It went perfectly if you ask Louis, the auditionees’ smiles growing with the proclamation of each name, until the very last cast member had been revealed. And like any new announcement, Louis knows they’ll need a second to get familiar with their co-stars to let the excitement die down. So, after nodding to Emilie and pointing to the door, Louis steps outside for a quick second.

It takes him at least ten seconds to adjust to the sunlight. When he does, he spots the boy immediately. Sitting alone on the theatre’s first step, he’s quiet, wiring in some type of notebook.

Louis rubs at his eyes some more, hoping down the steps gingerly. As he approaches the boy’s back, “There you are.” is what he goes for.

The boy nearly falls off the step.

Right. Louis really should’ve gathered that. Louis backpedals immediately, rounding the boy until he’s facing him, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle—” but he sort of just. Stops speaking entirely.

Because the boy’s eyes are greener than they should be, wide and round and youthful, with the softest of features to match. Louis has never seen anything like it, and he can’t say he’s a fan of what it’s doing to his breathing.

Louis exhales lightly, “I… uh, just wanted to say sorry for scaring you back there. I was just announcing roles.”

The boy’s chest is still rising and falling when he finally looks up at Louis, “Oh, I…” the boy’s squinting, the sun clearly in his eyes, so Louis sidesteps slightly. A shadow washes over his skin, and the boy immediately shuts his mouth.

Louis pauses. He looks around for a split second. “You weren’t here to audition, were you?” He asks.

The boy is silent. For almost too long. Then, “No, I prefer to be behind the scenes,” He says finally, playfully, before doubling back, “I mean, yeah—no, I wasn’t. I write for UToday.”

It takes Louis a moment to realize what the boy’s talking about. “Oh, like the student newspaper?”

The boy nods. “I’m covering the musical this year,” He pauses, stumbling over his words slightly, “It’s good to, uh, meet—”

Louis laughs again, staring down at what appears to be a terrified fresher. “It’s good to meet you too. But I hate to disappoint you, there isn’t too much drama at these first meetings,” he jests, “I can totally give you a rundown of the cast list though, if you want it.”

A moment passes.

Then, the boy is smiling for the first time, for real, and it’s beautiful. He flips open his notebook. Louis steps back and extending his hand. To his relief, the boy takes it. Louis pulls him to his feet.

“I’m Louis, by the way.”

“I’m Harry.” The boy returns, and in that moment, Louis knows he was right—it’s a face that he’ll never forget.

☆

“Baby!” Bounding through Avalanche’s metallic door far too loudly, Louis stops dead in his tracks. To his horror, the man leaning coolly against the counter flipping through air fresheners is most definitely not Zayn.

“Oh, shit—” Louis starts, but “ _Ah_!” he can only watch helplessly as the man almost topples over, catching himself on the glass edge of the counter, “Oh _gosh_ ,” the man curses, turning around in shock, hand plastered over his chest in earnest, and his coolness evaporates in an instant.

Because Louis might just be looking at the widest pair of puppy-dog eyes and pouty lips he’s ever seen.

“It’s okay! It’s okay!” Louis shouts, the door chiming behind him, his hands outstretched as if to somehow contain the panic, “I’m sorry—it’s nearly closing, I thought there’d be no one here.”

The man continues to catch his breath as Louis continues to ramble, the poor soul now completely down on the linoleum floor.

Louis steps toward him. “I swear I’m civilized. I don’t usually barge into shops like this,” Louis offers him a hand dumbly, still red from the bitter October air, “I’m sorry, I thought you were someone else.”

The man’s back is up against the counter, chest rising and falling deeply. When he finally calms down, he takes Louis’ hand, “I thought you were a _murderer_.” he gasps finally, covering his mouth with his free hand.

“I yelled _baby_ , though.”

“What?”

“What murderer would yell _baby_ before… murdering?”

There’s a pause.

And okay, this is absolutely not the time for Louis to be taking the piss. This is a stranger, not Zayn.

 _Speaking of._ “I thought you were Zayn. He works here and I brought him some food.” Louis yanks the man up to his feet, watching him straighten out his grey jumper, until they both pause once more. They both turn their heads. On the ground is a toppled plastic bag from Arch, pastry boxes lying forgotten in the aftermath of Louis’ attempted murder. “ _Right_ , well. I was trying to.” Louis laughs, his hands finding place on his hips.

The man is laughing too. “Sorry,” He grins widely, and it might just be like sunshine finally grazing Louis’ frozen skin, “You were expecting Zayn, you said?”

Louis is so caught up in his light that he nearly misses the question. “Oh, yeah, he should—”

“He’s just in the back,” The man’s smiling once more, brighter, “He’s getting some records. Said he would come by mine and play them for me because apparently I know all too little about classic rock.”

Louis nearly topples over with the food. “He what?”

The man’s smile freezes. “Sorry?”

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

They both freeze.

Slowly, the man begins to thaw. “I’m sorry, do you two have plans? I didn’t mean to…”

Louis’ eyes follow his line of sight toward the spilled pastries, “Oh no, we really don’t. I’m sorry, it’s just—” The man’s eyes never leave Louis’, his eyebrows rising in anticipation through his air of concern, and well.

 _What_ is Louis doing? Like, what he is actually doing in this moment? He’s just scared the life out of this man, and now he’s interrogating him like Zayn is his personal property. Sure, maybe some days Louis feels so unaccomplished he’d write off ‘Zayn’ as a personal asset, but today is not the day.

Especially not when the man’s eyes are slipping back into puppy-territory. Louis laughs apologetically, “To be honest, I was just using the food to bribe him into driving me home. He just got a new motorcycle and public transit sucks. Y’know, gotta do what you gotta do.”

Kindness washes over the man’s face, a chuckle escaping through his full lips. “Yeah, sure.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, shifting his weight onto his other foot.

And _that_ would be Louis’ cue. “Well, I’m gonna head out.” He says, turning to close the distance between himself and the plastic bag. He’s already kicked the excess sugar under a display bin by the time the man speaks again.

“I mean, which way are you headed? I’m on campus. We could always—”

“Oh, no worry,” Louis shrugs, standing up straight, “You two have a good night.”

He watches as the man’s lips curl into a small smile, his hand coming down on the glass counter once again, “You as well.” he says.

Louis’ half out the door when he turns around, the moonlight flooding into the quaint shop, “Oh, and…” Louis trails off, the frigid door handle lying in his palm. It’s only then that he realizes they’d yet to exchange names.

“Liam.” He supplies.

“ _Liam_ ,” Louis continues, watching the man’s eyes crinkle in response, “If he doesn’t play you some Queen, I’ll be coming home with you next time.”

☆

Zayn strolls into the darkened living room nearly three hours later, humming something triumphant and melodically brilliant to himself.

That until Louis spins his armchair around and flicks on a lamp. “Oh, is that… _Queen_?”

The boy just about falls into the side table, “ _Fuck_! Tommo!” Zayn shouts, his hands rushing to cover his face, “I almost threw my keys at you.”

“Liam was a lot more polite.”

“I think my heart actually _stopped_ —” He stops himself there. When he pulls away his hands, he looks more alive than ever, “What?” he says.

“Stopped by the shop when you were in the back,” Louis says nonchalantly, kicking the empty take-away boxes under the coffee table, “Scared the shit out of the boy. Really, he didn’t tell you?”

“I mean,” Zayn makes his way over to the kitchen, his anxious air wafting over to Louis with ease, “Why would it matter?” he grabs at his Batman mug, staring at the porcelain for far too long, “He’s a customer, and I’m an employee. What’s odd about that?”

The look on Zayn’s perfected features says otherwise, “Oh, excuse me—are house calls a part of your job?” Louis taunts.

“Look,” Zayn starts, popping his favourite black tea blend into the machine, Louis can hear the waver of a smile in his voice, “I just wanted to make sure he found what he needed. That s’all.”

“Never knew you were so passionate about…” Louis closes the distance between them, pressing his chest to the boy’s shaking bicep, “ _Customer service_.”

And that’s when he loses it.

Throwing his head back, Zayn laughs loudly into the empty air, just long enough for Louis to hop up onto the counter beside the machine.

“Tell me about him.” Louis demands.

Zayn gives him a full once over after the last of his laughter rings out, his eyebrows furrowing, “There’s nothing—”

“How old is he? He’s a student, right?”

“Well—”

“He said he lived on campus, did you really go to his _dorm_?”

“Tommo—”

“How long has this been going on? Have you—”

The boy slams his hands down on the granite, “ _For fuck’s sake_ , Tommo. Can I speak?” his eyes snap over to meet Louis’.

The boy holds his scowl a full five seconds before he’s shaking his head and laughing, grabbing Louis by the ankle and yanking him clear off the stone.

Louis takes shelter on a stool, and “Shut up and listen. I’m only going to say it once.” Zayn begins, turning to prop himself up against the dark granite.

For once, Louis does.

“He’s came into the shop last week ago. He’s a second year student journalist for UToday who was doing an article about local businesses. I was working, so he interviewed me. Thought it would be the last time I saw him. So, when I heard the door chime today, and in came this _Liam_ , I asked him if he’d forgotten my name for quoting. Instead, he handed over this week’s paper. We got to talking, I offered to show him some good music as a thank you, and he said yes.”

Somewhere between _journalist_ and _good music_ , Louis must’ve become a preschooler listening to a storybook, because his mouth is way too dry to have not been gawking.

From behind the boy, the machine beeps cheerfully. Zayn turns to tend to his beverage, but Louis is already speaking, “So, did you read it?” he gasps.

“Not yet,” The sound of a spoon against porcelain punctuates his words, “Wanna take care of that for me?” he turns around, digging into his inside coat pocket to reveal a folded UToday newspaper. Tossing the print onto the island, he leans his back up against the dark granite once again and brings his mug up to his nose.

“You want me to read it to you?” Louis watches the steam rise up and coat the boy’s eyelashes with moisture. The boy blinks sweetly. Louis rolls his eyes. “Lazy or conceited? The world may never know.”

“Both. Page four.”

Laughing, Louis’ eyes wash over the surplus of words and pictures. He’s flipping through the pages like mad, until he lands on something that looks all too familiar. The stage. And not just the stage, but all the stagehands, professors, and talent—and if Louis’ not mistaken, _himself_ , standing beside the set designer in the distance.

He runs his fingers over the inked image, until Zayn’s voice breaks his concentration.

“Page four.” He repeats, after swallowing another mouthful of liquid, and “No, I know—it’s just,” Louis starts, his eyes running over the bolded headline as he reads aloud, “‘Rehearsal en Route: The Nightmare Before Christmas’.”

“What?” Zayn closes the distance between himself and Louis, craning his neck over the paper, “They’re writing about the musical already?”

Louis is already reading ahead, “ _‘_ The annual Christmas musical is coming once again—and this time, it’s bigger than ever. With infamous Louis Tomlinson officially recruited as director, the cast has been set and the theatre is filled up to its rafters in inspiration’—oh my _god_.” 

“Oh my god!” Zayn echoes, and for every word, Zayn has leaned in an inch. He’s basically on top of Louis when he shouts, his tea long forgotten, “Who wrote this glowing review?”

For a moment Louis draws a blank, his mind unable to compute every _infamous_ and _inspiration_ soaked into the paper, until both their eyes land upon the small cursive name at the end of the article.

_Harry Styles._

“Oh my—” Louis blurts, and “Yeah, you said that,” Zayn mocks, taking an extra look at the paper. He stares at the author, reading, “ _Harry Styles_ … how kind of you. I swear, either every student at our university’s secretly a theatre enthusiast, or everyone _really_ _is_ in love with you.”

Louis is so smitten that he can’t even speak.

Zayn can. “Oh, and page four please.”


	4. Chapter Four

Louis would like to think that projecting his voice is one of his talents.

“ _Harry Styles_!”

And thankfully so, as the curly brunet ascending the theatre’s steps stops dead in his tracks—long enough for Louis to close the gap between them.

Harry’s just wielding his head around when Louis meets his gaze. “Good afternoon,” Louis announces, dragging in quick breaths of cold air, “How are you?”

“You know my—” Harry stops himself, his green eyes bounce back and forth between Louis’ face and passing students, “Uh, I,” he looks elated, as if he’s genuinely thrilled to have his full name be common knowledge, “I’m well, how are you?”

Louis actually laughs. “I’m doing all right, thank you.” He watches as the boy laughs too, readjusting his knit scarf. The next gust of wind blows both of their coats open, and it is sign enough to have them jogging up the rest of the steps.

When they reach the theatre’s front doors, Harry grabs hold of the door handle and yanks it open. “After you.”

Louis sidesteps in front of him, adding as he goes, “I read your article, by the way. Very inspirational.”

The boy’s hand drops from the door. Louis shoves his knee out to stop it from shutting between them. Harry looks pale. “That was sarcasm, wasn’t it?” He says matter-of-factly, running his hand over his eyes, “You hated it. Oh my god.”

Louis slowly replaces his knee with a flattened palm as the boy continues to scold himself, and for a moment, Louis wonders if he’d accidentally lost his mind and said something awful. But no—he’d definitely said _inspirational_ , and for some reason, the boy sounds like he’s about to quit UToday entirely.

“Hey, no,” Louis urges, gripping the boy’s bicep with his free hand, “I was serious. It _was_ inspirational—made me feel like I was doing something right.”

Harry stops his rambling in an instant, his eyes falling to where Louis’ fingers are wrapped around the fabric of his coat. The door wavers back and forth in the October air.

“You liked it?” He asks, finally looking up.

“ _Yes_ ,” Louis enunciates, a smile tugging at his lips, before he’s tugging the boy clear through the doorway. The door slams shut behind them, the noise ricocheting through the high-ceilinged hall. “Didn’t even ask me for a quote, though. I hear other student journalists have been asking for quotes.” Louis complains, adjusting his bag on his shoulder, and miraculously, Harry actually seems to play along.

His turns toward Louis, his voice wavering a little, “I can only add so much _inspiration_ into three-hundred words.” his eyes land on Louis once more, his teeth stark white behind his ruby coloured lips.

“Oh, is that it?” Louis gawks, his eyebrows rising in fabricated shock, and _yes_ —this is banter he wanted. Harry is forcing away a smile when Louis adds, “Well, just let me know when the next—”

A voice cuts him off.

“ _Louis_ , thank god you’re here.” It’s Emilie, her voice short and frantic, causing both boys’ heads to dart over to the stage. Walking briskly, she breaks from a group of stagehands and makes their way over to where he and Harry are standing.

The panic is clear on her features when she steps up to them.

“Aiden dropped out. We’re out of a lead.”

☆

_The Importance of Understudies,_ a biographical haiku by Louis William Tomlinson:

_dammit no fuck shit_

_no no no no shit why fuck_

_shit shit shit bollocks_

Rising from the rubble of Louis’ impressive poetry debut, “Just get someone else to do it.” is what Zayn goes for.

Louis wedges his knee into the metal door a little too angrily. He did _not_ remove his hands from the warmth of his pockets and fervently dial the boy’s number for _this_ , “Wow, that’s really a great idea—I can’t believe I didn’t think of it myself.”

“Just keeping the peace.”

Louis is about to give him a piece of his mind. “Can Liam act?” He tries.

“Not a chance.”

Louis exhales in earnest, “ _God_. It’s nearly been a week and we’ve gotten nowhere closer to finding a new Jack. No one wants to do it.”

“You do it.”

“ _No_.”

He hears the boy laugh on the other end. “Make _Harry_ _Styles_ do it, then.”

“Are you serious?”

“Why not?”

“I _told_ you—he’s just some student journalist, I don’t even know him.” Louis lies, because maybe Zayn doesn’t need to know everything. And maybe Harry’s a Lit major who prefers to be behind the scenes, anyway.

“So invite him over. Make him loosen up, I’m sure he’ll come ‘round.” The October wind shows no mercy in slamming the chunk of metal behind Louis, knocking him out onto the cracked pavement. He stumbles over his own feet, just shy of dropping everything he owns. The public takes notice. But to be fair, impolite torments of nature aside, Louis probably would’ve tripped as a result of Zayn’s words anyway.

He swallows dryly. “I am not… going to loosen Harry up in our flat,” He whispers into the receiver, straightening out his jacket as he lies through his teeth, “I don’t even know him.”

“Oh, so he’s just _Harry_ now?”

“Zayn.”

“Look, I’m not judging.”

“You’re not helping either.”

Zayn laughs into the receiver, his voice quiet compared the gusty street noise. Louis quite wants to hang up.

But he doesn’t, he hops down the first set on concrete stairs instead, pillars to both his right and left. Around him, people stand in groups waiting for a bus to arrive, others smoking the cold weather away.

Zayn’s voice decides to make another appearance. “Okay. Have you tried asking John? Maybe Adam?” Down by the street, a bus pulls up to the awning. A few late blokes start jogging to make the pickup, and Louis almost does too, before he remembering that the same idiot he’s got pressed to his ear is, in fact, his way home.

Zayn bought the bike against Louis’ will. But Louis is not willing to take public transit ever again.

Louis sighs into his mobile, “Yes. Kevin and Jordan too,” he winds his way around a group of girls, chattering about how their teeth are chattering, “They’re all too busy. Or too stressed. Or in _private acting lessons four times a week already_ —Zayn, I’m losing my mind.”

“Sadly, Tommo, I think you are.”

Louis shuts his eyes and stops in his tracks. Zayn continues to laugh from the other end, in tune with Avalanche’s quiet, electronic door chime. If it wasn’t so bloody cold out, Louis might just burst into flames.

He takes a deep breath instead. “Just come and get me, please. I’m cold.”

Zayn takes a breath too. “I just got off, I’m getting on the bike right now. Chill out.”

Louis opens his eyes.

A moment passes.

Zayn’s laughing again.

“Oh, shit _._ That’s funny. _Chill out_ ,” Louis hears the bike start up, “Because you’re like, cold. Wow, that’s good. I am so—” Louis zones out right about then, averting his attention to the bustling street around him. Perhaps he’s tired, perhaps he’s tired of hearing Zayn speak, or perhaps the hypothermia has finally set in, because—say, why not look for a new lead? His other senses can be spared at the moment.

Louis begins his public scan.

_Too tall…_

_Too short…_

_Too cool…_

“Okay, I’m gonna hang up now, Tommo. See ya soon.”

_Too blond…_

_Too old…_

_Too confused as to why Louis is staring…_

_Too—_ wait. Try, like, profoundly confused as to why Louis is staring. Can’t a guy stare in peace? What’s his problem?

“Louis?”

Louis snaps back into reality. His mobile is at his side and beeping forlornly. The wind rustles up his jacket a final time. And, ten feet before him, sitting on the theatre’s front steps, is Harry.

Louis presses _end call_. “Oh. Hi, Harry.” It takes him a full three seconds to begin closing the gap between them, “Fancy seeing you here.”

The wind actually seems to carry Louis’ voice over to where the boy is sitting, his face lighting up in all of its rosy wind-burned glory. “Is it?” He jests, sitting up straighter as Louis’ shoes clap against the concrete, “I’d offer you a seat, but there’s gum on either side of me.”

Louis laughs a little too fondly. The tips of his shoes are inches away from the boy’s tote bag. It looks like it’s hand painted, with little sponged flowers and some hippy slogan. Louis almost laughs. “That’s okay, Styles. I’m afraid if I sit, I’ll freeze that way.” He says.

Harry laughs too, nestling his bag between his ankles. “Yes, also a fear of mine.” He jokes.

Then, things go quiet.

“So,” Louis exhales after a moment, watching the way the boy looks up at him with wide eyes. Louis blinks, suddenly drawing a blank. “So… is frigid cement and second-hand smoke your muse?”

“You could say that.” The boy sniffles into his scarf, taking a quick look around as another bus pulls up, peaking the interest of the nearest smoker. They both watch the man, and then mock-gasp in unison when he stomps out his cigarette and marches toward the bus.

Louis lays a hand over his heart. Harry stands to his feet in one wobbly motion, “How will I ever finish my slam poem now?” he yearns, slinging his bag over his shoulder and tucking his notebook in the crook of his arm.

Louis laughs so loud he nearly makes the man turns around. Harry looks up to meet Louis’ gaze, seeming to appreciate his laughter.

“Any luck finding a new lead?” Harry asks.

That takes Louis off guard a bit. Releasing a frustrated grown he totally meant to stifle, Louis runs a hand over his face and Harry begins to laugh again.

“No,” Louis all but whines, “And you better not be writing an article about it.”

Harry’s laughter ends abruptly. Louis lets his hand fall. Their eyes meet.

Then Harry is opening his notebook, running a line of ink across the page in one hasty movement, and Louis almost screams, “ _Wait_ —oh my god,” he nearly snatches the book out of Harry’s hands, “You weren’t. You wouldn’t. _Were you_?”

It takes Harry all of five seconds to crack.

He’s laughing louder than ever before, his cheeks flushed, “Of course not, Louis, I’m kidding,” and Louis’ covering his face again, he might be crying, “I’m doing a piece on the tech team. They’ve got a lot of rookies on hand this year.”

“Brilliant, good luck with that.” Louis has never been happier to hear about tech nerds. The student body is going to love that, and Louis is going to love keeping his little predicament under wraps.

When Louis lets his hands fall, Harry’s still looking at him, still grinning, like Louis’ a lot funnier than he really is.

A moment passes, but it’s not uncomfortable.

The boy’s the first to speak.

“So, what’s the—”

“ _Oi! Tommo!_ ”

All of a sudden, up from the street and onto the curb comes Zayn and his navy-blue motorcycle—loud and quick and _absolutely_ illegal. He comes to a screeching halt, right before careening into Louis. If it weren’t for the bus pulling away, more students would have noticed the felony. The twenty or so will have to do.

_Jesus._

“ _Jesus_.” Harry blurts. Louis just catches the end of the boy picking up his notebook from the ground.

Zayn doesn’t miss a beat. “I just go by Zayn nowadays, but thanks.”

Harry pauses. He eyes the boy up and down, flashing a quick, but sweet, smile. Louis feels like he can’t breathe. And it’s not because of the near death experience.

“Zayn,” Louis manages over the roar of the engine, “What are you… why didn’t you—”

The boy slides up the green plastic of his helmet’s visor, “You called and I showed. Isn’t it nice how that works?” his eyes linger on Louis for a moment before flicking to Harry. Unchecked amusement flashes across Zayn’s eyes. Louis knows exactly where this is going.

“Why, _hello_ …” Zayn starts, and if Louis says he remembers clambering on the back of that bike, unlatching his helmet, putting it on, and ordering Zayn to leave, he’s lying.

“C’mon, Zayn. It’s cold.” Louis interrupts, tugging on the boy’s jacket as if it’ll make this whole process go any quicker, and Zayn actually complies. Smacking down his visor after giving a silent nod to Harry, he revs the engine and then hops back down onto the street.

As they roar away from the theatre, Louis forces himself not to turn back. But he catches the boy in the near view mirror anyway, and of course, _of course_ , the boy is waving goodbye.

☆

Zayn’s motorcycle keys are thrown into the bowl.

“Who the fuck was that?”

“Zayn—”

Then go his shoes.

“Let me try again. _Who_ the _fuck_ was _that?”_

“Please—”

Then comes Zayn. Pushing Louis’ back into the foyer wall. “Louis William Tomlinson, you _asshat_. Since when do you flirt with boys and not tell me?” He scolds, his palms firmly on Louis’ shoulders.

“I wasn’t,” Louis looks anywhere but the boy’s eyes. Which is unlike him. “We weren’t…”

“And _pretty_ boys, for that matter— _dammit_ , Tommo!” Zayn throws his hands up, landing them squarely on his hips. But, fear-not, he lets one hand free, waving at Louis like a mad man.

“Okay, but what about Liam _—”_ Louis takes the liberty of cutting himself off, because, well, “I can’t believe—” _Yeah_. “—you would do this, Louis. We are best mates, we are brothers, does that mean anything to you?”

Louis walks out of the foyer.

“Tommo!”

He nearly makes it to the kitchen, before there’s a hand on his shoulder again.

“Are you just gonna ignore—”

Louis wields around to face the boy. “Oh my god, you _hypocrite_ , this is why I didn’t tell you!”

Zayn stands motionless, his gaze bridging the gap between Louis’ eyes. Their fists are balled at their sides, their chests rising and falling in unison, and for a moment, a _fraction_ of a moment, Louis swears he sees sincerity staring back at him.

And, then there’s a fist in his bicep. “So, there _is_ something going on!” Zayn nearly tosses them both onto the hardwood as he drags Louis over to an island stool. They sit, however forcibly, and Zayn props his head up onto his palms.

“What’s his name?” He whispers.

Louis shuts his eyes. “I’m going to scream.”

“But you’re not going to deny it.”

And, he’s back. “Z, there’s nothing to deny. Nothing’s going on. We both go to rehearsals. I bump into him from time to time. That’s it.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a glint in his eyes. Louis hates it. “Your record time bike mounting says otherwise. I recall jacket-tugging?”

“Z, please.”

He waves his hands like he’s doing Louis a favor. “All I’m asking for is a name.”

And that’s exactly what Louis doesn’t want to say. With dwindling pride and a subpar composure, he could just make a run for it now; but Zayn’s looking at him like he’s about to make the switch from bicep to face, and Louis really can’t afford a nose job.

 _Ugh_.

“Harry.” He says.

At first, Zayn doesn’t react. Or, at least, he doesn’t speak. His face, however, goes through every stage of life. Louis feels like he just watched Zayn’s entire life unfold through the folds of his face, furrowing and scowling and smiling and doubting, until— 

“Harry _Styles?_ As in… doting student journalist who just fawned over you like a fulltime job?” Louis watches Zayn’s hands fall flat on the granite, his jaw seems to follow, “As in… _Harry Styles? I don’t even know him!_ ” he gasps theatrically.

_Double ugh._

But Zayn’s already getting up from the stool, swinging his arms around wildly, which is not the reaction Louis expected at all, “Oh _,_ you know him _well_ —you prick! I can’t believe you’ve been hiding him from me.”

Louis can only shake his head in annoyance, crossing his arms over his chest, “I haven’t been hiding him.” he scoffs.

Scoffing back, “Tommo, yes you bloody have. But no harm done—he likes you, and you, _get this_ ,” Zayn grabs Louis’ wrist and yanks him up to his feet, signing dramatically, “ _You_ like him.”

Louis wants none of this. Ever. “Yeah, sure.” Louis laughs, twisting out of the boy’s clutches, and making a beeline for the stairs. He’s got Zayn’s smug laughter bouncing off the walls and into his ears long after he reaches the staircase, but before Louis can head upstairs, Zayn’s voice stops him.

“Oi! Tommo!”

Louis turns back, his smile matched. Leaning against the island, “I’m happy for you.” Zayn says.

Maybe, just maybe, Louis is too.

☆

“Hey, Louis.”

“Louis?”

“Louis Tomlinson, I _swear_ —”

Louis’ head snaps up, and “Shit, _what_?” he whispers as he sits up in his chair. Professor Miller is still drawing some type of mindmap on the blackboard with four different colours of chalk, but the lecture room looks different around him, like he’s just woken up from a long dream. 

Niall leans forward over the table, absolutely gawking, “Were you actually zoned out _again_?”

For the fourth time this morning. “No.”

“Liar _._ I’m beginning to worry about you.”

Louis chooses laughter—it seems like the most harmless option. He scoops up his textbook before it slides into his lap entirely.

Niall doesn’t laugh. “What’s up?” He presses.

“Nothing.” Louis says easily, as if frozen breath, pavement gum, and missing leads aren’t dancing in his head.

Somehow, Niall is still invested. “Is it the lead?” He asks, turning his torso toward Louis. He takes Louis’ silence as a yes. “Oh, _c’mon_. Bro, you’ll find someone. You’ll be back on track—”

“ _Hey,_ boys in the back _,”_ Professor Miller’s voice carries across the room, her bright smile making an appearance as the entire class turns their gaze backwards, “I am spending far too much time on this beautiful mind map for yous to not be paying attention.”

“Sorry, Prof Miller.” Louis sinks into his seat, and “Right as always, Mills! Ten-four.” Niall shouts back, with a full thumbs up and everything.

She shakes her head amicably at them, her gaze lingering on Louis for a moment longer—as if they both know Louis is failing and she made a massive mistake—until her rose-coloured lips curl into a small smile and something flashes across her face: _assurance_.

Then, she’s continuing with her lecture, and Louis’ left to wonder how he ever deserved her.

Running his fingers over the spine of the book, he swallows, “Okay, yes, it’s the lead. The next rehearsal is tomorrow.” he whispers to Niall, propping his chin up on his palm.

Niall’s eyes bounce back and forth between the blackboard and Louis’ face.

“Come to the footie game with me tonight.”

A moment passes.

“Louis?”

Another moment.

“Louis, I’m going to _scream_ —”

So, it’s the fifth time. So what.

Niall grabs his arm. Louis finally turns to him. “The footie game tonight, go with me. Pick me up at 6.” He demands, and Louis can’t say no, mainly because Professor Miller is eyeing them again.

☆

Louis has made a terrible mistake.

He really should have written it down. No, absolutely not. It’s his mobile’s fault. It definitely is. Louis hadn’t wanted to delete his­­­ conversation between him and Niall, honest—there were far too many image-destroying selfies and moronic spelling mistakes on Niall’s part—not to mention _Niall’s dormitory and room number_. But when his mobile angrily banned his camera app with a _low storage_ notice right as he opened his flat door to the most breathtaking sunset he’s ever seen, surely to disappear in minutes, he couldn’t just. _Not_ take a picture. He couldn’t.

So, with nothing but his text conversations to delete, his mobile had given him an ultimatum. An ultimatum that’s got him a new lock screen and absolutely lost in Crane Hall East dormitory.

It wouldn’t have been nearly as degrading had Crane Hall’s twin buildings looked like actual twins. Crane Hall _West_ , red-bricked and pillared and touching the sky, just past Ferndale Square and the Science building, is unfathomably massive compared to its supposed sibling. It housed twelve hundred students pre-remodel, nearly ten years ago, and now has the capacity of two-and-a-half thousand.

It would be easy to get lost in West— _expected_ , actually. Receiving a response of positive spatial awareness from a passerby, whilst trawling the seven floors of archaic murals and brightly coloured doors, would be psychologically impossible. And if they were to defend their aimless travels, they’re either an egotistical liar or the building’s architect, returning for a session of evil laughter as disoriented twenty-somethings suffer. 

Crane Hall East houses three hundred. Standing in the center of the hallway, Louis can touch both walls without as much as a lean. Paying no attention, he can hear people whispering three stories above him. The common room is no larger than his bedroom, fact, and with the distance from one side of the building to the other a mere thirty-second walk— _no one_ gets lost in Crane Hall East. No one could. It’s the architect’s misplaced scale model of West.

This… _this_ is complete mess.

Louis has just passed a set of vending machines for the fourth time when he’s finally addressed, “Oi, Brown Crossbody! Can I help you with something?” _addressed_ being used loosely.

Louis screws his eyes shut and spins on his heels, hiking his bag further up his shoulder. The declination is practically dripping from his tongue already, until he locks eyes with the stranger.

He’s tall­, and not just to Louis, but actually quite giant. His lanky limbs, clad in ripped jeans, chafe against each other noisily as he closes the distance between him and Louis, wobbling from side to side every once and a while. His smile is stark white against his bronzed skin and dark hair, his eyes shining with inebriation.

He seems to have been on his way back to the common room from the toilet, or at least Louis supposes, considering the red and white acrylic paint daubed across his cheeks, sloshing pint in his right hand, and blatantly open fly. Louis can smell the alcohol on his lips long before he makes out the club of his jersey.

 _Manchester United._ “Oh, no thanks,” Louis sighs politely, laughing off his obvious embarrassment with the fidgety brushing of his wind-blown quiff, “Just heading to my mate’s dorm, actually.”

Face Paint comes to a stop, the width of the vending machine separating them. He makes a pouty face at Louis, an _actual_ pouty face.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Your fly’s undone.” 

“Oh, no.” His head falls downwards in defeat. He palms his crotch observantly, almost forlornly, “And I don’t suppose you’ll be getting that for me,” he quickly peers up through his drooping quiff, the alcohol clearly not a hindrance to all of his wit just yet.

Louis hates how wide he’s grinning. “Nope. Sorry, mate.” Louis chuckles, and the stranger continues to run his fingers over the teeth of his zipper, as if willing it to fasten on its own. He looks genuinely perplexed, back hunched over excessively. It has Louis wondering if he’s _ever_ done up a fly.

“Sad luck. Mind holding onto this, then?”

“I—” The dripping glass is all but tossed into Louis’ chest, which he nearly fumbles and lets crash onto the floor, “— _okay_ , yeah, okay.”

Face Paint stabilizes himself on the thick plastic of the vending machine, widening the gap between his feet. He looks like he’s preparing for the Olympics rather than completing a daily task, tongue drawn out of his mouth, until the subtle _zip_ sound signals the end of his struggles.

Louis’ gaze falls downward to the cup in his hands, his nose turning up at the pungent scent of hops, carbonation, and grass. “Congratulations, here’s this back.” Louis extends his arm.

Face Paint pops upright. “Why. Thank you, kind stranger.” He jests, intentionally snobbish. He takes the plastic into his palm and then bows unceremoniously to punctuate his point, nearly toppling over. Louis’ smile swells.

“My mates are just in there,” He gestures vaguely over Louis’ shoulder, Louis turns his head, there’s nothing but more hall, “There’s a match on the flat screen. Care to catch the end?”

It’s as if he’s forgotten Louis’ answer already. Louis’ gaze traces the tiny cracks in the white paint. “Thanks, but I’ve got to go,” Louis ducks his head, wordlessly dismissing himself. The stranger simply smiles as Louis spins on his heels. “Pushing for Man U, though!” Louis calls upon a backward glance. He hears Face Paint cheer in response.

The hallway curves to the left, and then to the right. He experiences two more vending machines, one pair of abandoned shoes, a plastic bag full of empty take-away boxes—but not _one_ blimmin’ blond boy.

The hallway funnels him into the common room. The space expands around him, immediately louder and brighter than the quaint hall. Louis looks around aimlessly. Four entrances—or exits—of carpeted hallways pool into the old-fashioned space, one of which Louis’ currently standing in, and two of which Louis’ sure he’s already taken. The clock on the wall reads quarter past six.

It’s not too late.

He can do this.

Louis is halfway through the exit doors when a door flies open down the final hallway. To his sheer delight—which is a feeling Louis can’t say he’s ever felt whilst seeing the blond— _Niall blimmin’ Horan_ makes his way into the hall, turning to lock his dorm door behind himself.

And if Louis says he remembers hugging his crossbody for dear life, sprinting through the mouth of the hallway, and barely stopping in time before careening into the boy—he’s lying.

“Hey!” Louis shouts, and “ _Shit_!” Niall shouts even louder, dropping his keys onto the carpeting floor. He wields his torso around, locking eyes with a very nonchalant Louis (minus the intense rising and falling of his chest after his Olympic fifty meter dash).

“Sorry for being late.” Louis breathes, leaning down to scoop up the fallen keys. But they hadn’t landed on the carpeted floor; rather, a thin brown doormat with the words ‘Feck Off’ delicately interwoven into the fabric.

Louis is appalled. And entertained. “Really?” He laughs, handing over the lanyard.

Niall shrugs a little too casually for continuously insulting the public. He takes back his keys. “It was a gift.” He explains.

Louis holds his gaze for a moment longer, watching the way the blond runs his hands through his feathery quiff. He smiles when Niall begins to laugh.

“Well, does it work?” Louis asks.

☆

It had taken approximately two tube changes for Louis to blow his cover.

“Don’t laugh, okay. _Oi_ —stop laughing!”

“For _god’s sake_ , bro.”

The tube comes to a halt. Niall’s laugher doesn’t.

“Stop! I was _disoriented_ and _embarrassed_ , okay. In my defense, I could’ve found your room, I just didn’t know the number and—”

“Why didn’t you just _ring me_?”

“—I didn’t…” Louis stops himself there. _Oh_. “Oh.”

Niall’s cups his reddening face with his hands, continuing to chuckle manically. “I absolutely cannot with you.” His knuckles are of the same shade—their colouring, however, due to the cold and not the intense laughter associated with pointing out his mate’s incomprehensible idiocy. “Didn’t ask for directions, either?”

Like anyone would’ve known who Niall was. Louis scoffs into his sleeve. “Well there was this one bloke. Totally pissed and surely too young to be. I ran into him on his way back from the toilet. Fly open and face all painted for Man U.”

Niall looks up from his hands. “Johnny?” He asks, grin still wide as ever.

Louis blinks. “Maybe?”

“ _No_ , Isaac?”

Louis’ smile fades. Niall’s doesn’t.

“Adam?”

“Niall, I have no idea.”

“Jake?”

“Niall—”

“Jack? Lance? _Will_ —yeah, the bloke’s a mess—it was Will, I bet ya.”

The tube comes to a halt again, but this time the loudspeakers are blaring the name of a station that sounds somewhat familiar. And good for it, because he absolutely cannot stand another second of this.

“Right!” Louis says upon standing, mock-interested, grabbing the blond’s arm hurriedly, “I bet it was!”

Niall nearly topples into Louis. “ _Bro_ , this is so _funny_ —”

“Hilarious!” and for the first time ever, Niall’s being dragged by Louis.

☆

It seems Louis’ day of firsts had _still_ been going strong.

Like a dream, the station had funneled them up to a set of streets Louis doesn’t know, all interconnecting and bustling in the dim October light. There were shops on their left, restaurants to their right, cars driving out of sight and into the distance both behind them and in front. With the wind snaking through the thin buildings and up Louis’ unzipped jacket, the pitch had been just two blocks away.

And the match was a blast. With his eyes trained on the blond’s ever-changing expression, maybe Louis began to love footie the smallest bit more.

Don’t get him wrong—Louis _loves_ the sport, but when he’s sitting at home, alone and staring into the computerized eyes of his electronic footie team like he would a proper lover, drowning in popcorn and pre-game jitters—he might just feel a little isolated. And peculiar. And entirely out of his wits.

He didn’t feel anything of the sort tonight. Even after their team lost, Louis wasn’t sad, how could he be? He had been _invited_ to an event, been surrounded by people much like himself for the most part of two hours—people who came together with more pride in their hearts than anger, more hope in their guts than fear, and more spirit in their being than Louis will ever comprehend.

Tonight, he felt powerful. He felt a part of something bigger.

The feeling lingers up to East’s front doors, long after Louis forgets about holding his stupid jacket shut, and Niall forgets about holding Louis to his stupidity. The moon is shinning just as brightly as they are.

“Tell me about your first year.” Louis slurs, shoving a piece of his pretzel into his mouth.

Niall throws him a quick glance, not even hesitating before ripping off a piece of the salty dough, “My first year?” he repeats.

Louis nods easily, handing him what’s left of his pretzel. Niall takes it, tucking his take-away box of chips under his arm.

“I moved in late august, pretended like I knew everyone until people started pretending back, and then smashed it in all my classes.”

Unfortunately, Louis can’t see that being the case. They do not live in such a world. Niall seems to agree, if his laughter says anything, “Okay, truthfully? Made only one friend, who ended up being my best mate, and did agonizingly sub-par in all of my classes. Had a blast, though.”

Louis clears his throat. “I remember when Zayn and I got our acceptance letters in the mail. His letter came in not even thirty hours before mine, and _shit_ , it was the worst thirty hours of my life.”

Somehow, Niall scoffs salt out of his mouth. “ _Thirty-hours_? How do you even remember that?”

“I didn’t sleep for thirty hours.”

Niall shakes his head incredulously, flicking Louis’ temple as his laughter rings out, “Uni’s that important to you?”

Louis shrugs, “Is now, sure,” he rubs his aching temple, “But then, I don’t know. It was more about getting away. It was exciting, y’know how dumb teenagers are— _freedom!_ ”

Niall laughs at this, really laughs, and somehow Louis is reminded of the first real conversation they ever had—back when éclairs were abundant, milkshakes were still dripping, and Louis had laughed for ages over the thought of Niall packing up and shoving off to become an actor. 

“Zayn and I totally planned on sharing a dorm room, too.”

Niall nearly drops his drink. “No way.”

“Yeah, until he realized that he needs at least one wall between us at all times to remain sane. Shared flat, it was.”

Niall barks out a laugh, his breath falling from his mouth in thick puffs. Even in the low light his eyes are shining, as if they’re the reason for the darkness, and somehow Louis feels like he doesn’t deserve this entire evening.

“Yeah, I think my mum was planning on rooming with me too.” Niall says.

Now it’s Louis’ turn to laugh. “Hard for her to let you go?”

“Naturally.”

“Funny, I can’t see that.”

Niall rolls his eyes into oblivion. The shadows on their faces shift as they run across a street, narrowly avoiding a taxi. “How about yours?” Niall asks, once they’ve returned to safety.

Louis is so lost in retrieving an ice cube with only his straw that he nearly misses the blond’s words.

“My what?” Louis asks, flat.

Niall is just as lost in his drink. “Your mum.”

Louis looks up from his hands in an instant, the glass of East’s front doors reflecting moonlight back into his eyes. He pauses, scouring for the part of his brain that houses his automated replies.

“Oh, she…” And this is considerably harder to do when there’s actual happiness running through his veins, for the first time in what feels like too long. He shakes his head. “It was fine. Everyone got over it pretty quick.”

Niall doesn’t seem to notice a shift in Louis’ tone. He just laughs and yanks the door open, passes through it before Louis does.

“Right, let’s try this again,” Niall begins once they’re both inside, the sarcasm dancing off his tongue like second nature, “Which way do we go from here?”

Louis would be offended if he hadn’t spent fifteen minutes aimlessly wondering this two-story building just three hours ago.

“Well,” They begin toward the lift, Louis is thinking way too hard, “Take the lift up to the second floor,” he illuminates the tiny _up_ arrow, “Then, down the last hallway until you get to room—”

A happy melodic ringtone interrupts him. Niall immediately scoops his blaring mobile from his trousers, his eyes scanning the name on the screen.

“Oh shit _,”_ Niall covers his mouth right as the lift doors open, “It’s Cassandra, I gotta take this,” he gasps, and Louis doesn’t even realize what’s just happened, he’s too busy watching his source of direction leave him, he’s _all talk_ , “Here, you take these, bro,” with one hand Niall shoves his keys and box of chips into Louis’, and with the other he holds doorframe, stopping the lift from closing its door, “I’ll be right up.”

Without much thought, Louis sidesteps into the lift, catching the end of the blond raising his mobile up to his ear.

“ _Cassandra_! How are you tonight?”

And then the door slides shut.

A moment passes.

Louis exhales, “No worries, this is easy,” his fingers fumble over the small keypad, illuminating the silver button with the inscribed number two, “Feck Off doormat. Feck Off doormat. Feck Off—”

“You coming off?”

“—doormat… _oh_ ,” The lift’s doors have absolutely been open at least five seconds. He has absolutely been whispering out loud. The blonde girl standing in front of him with her hand halting the lift doors is _absolutely_ not having it.

Louis blinks. She blinks back. She gestures toward the open space behind her.

 _Right_. “Right.” Louis darts toward the doors, narrowly avoiding the girl on his way out. She steps into the lift, flashing him a sideways glance as the doors shut between them.

Another moment passes.

“Right,” Louis echoes, spinning on his heels. He hikes his bag further up his shoulder, crossing the small common room with his eyes trained on the ground. And, as expected, he spots Niall’s doormat immediately.

Bounding up to the door, Louis wastes no time in shoving the key into the lock. He unlatches it with a click and then pushes his knee into the wood, slowly opening the door. The darkness envelops him immediately. Blind, he places the set of keys on Niall’s desk and feels for a light switch.

What he sees next will forever be engrained in his mind.

As the ceiling light flashes to life, the _body_ in Niall’s bed tosses the duvet over itself with a shout, and “Shit— _fuck_ , sorry!” Louis all but screams, covering his eyes for some reason, as he spins his torso around. He smashes the light switch off and then scrambles for the door handle, his heart beating out of his chest, as his fingers graze every single surface besides the bloody bar of metal, until—it _speaks_.

“Shit,” The voice is impossibly slurred, barely comprehensible through a yawn, “Did I… sorry.”

Louis stands motionless in the doorway as the voice rings out around him. Slurred or not, there’s something about it—something sparking a memory inside Louis’ mind. It’s almost as if he’s heard it before, as if he’s heard _a lot_ of it before.

There’s another voice. This time it’s Irish and bounding down the hallway.

“Guess who just got a date with _Cassandra_.” Niall’s grabbing the polystyrene box from Louis’ shell-shocked hand before he even turns his head, and “Wait, there’s someone—” Louis tries, but Niall’s already flicked on the light.

And then it hits him.

“ _Oh my god_.” He and Niall say in unison, but Louis has a slight feeling it’s for very different reasons.

Niall yanks his hood down, leaning forward as he peers into the quaint dorm that is _definitely_ his and has _most definitely_ been broken into by none other than— “How is this even possible?” Niall whines.

Good question. Louis feels like he might throw up. The blob continues to slur, obviously half-asleep, “Ni, I’m sorry… I swear all the dorms look the same in the dark…”

Niall has crossed the room before Louis even glances his way, “Ever tried flicking a light on? I’ll never understand why I gave you a key in the first place.”

“…because we’re best mates,” And then the blob’s sitting up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as the blanket peels off his tattoo-clad shoulders slowly, _mockingly_ , “I’ll go back—” he stops himself there.

It’s doting student journalist Harry Styles looking Louis right in the eyes, and for a moment, Louis forgets to breathe. Oh, how he wishes he _didn’t even know him_.

Because he’s the kind of boy that wears nothing better than any fabric, with curves and edges and crevices that Louis’ didn’t think were possible. There’s even a sheen across his bottom lip, and with matted hair lolled over his dewy skin, he looks so, _so_ unbelievably beautiful.

Louis doesn’t think of what it would be like to wake up next to that head of hair.

He doesn’t.

He absolutely does not.

Meanwhile, over in the lower ranks of the insanity spectrum, Niall isn’t looking. He’s busy jostling around the contents of his mini-fridge, in the attempts of freeing space for the match’s leftovers.

“Yeah, you better. Before I take my key back entirely.” Niall scolds.

Louis can hear the clinking of glass bottles and the spine-tingling screech of polystyrene as the blond’s hands work the box onto a shelf. Harry isn’t looking either—at _Niall_ , anyway.

Harry’s eyes are practically glued on Louis, haven’t left since the boy sat himself up, wide and green and _unmoving_. And Louis is staring too. It’s as if the expanse of Harry’s skin has shut off all the etiquette centers in his brain, as if somehow he believes Harry can’t see him staring, gawking, and Louis really shouldn’t be shaking this badly.

Even whilst being off his head, Louis knows how uncomfortable Harry must feel right now—or, he can make an educated guess, as he’s never accidentally entered the wrong dorm and stripped naked—so, naturally, all the competent bits in Louis are shouting at him to look away right now.

He absolutely cannot.

His mouth feels like it’s full of cotton.

Niall’s head whips back to the boy, his expression of an exhausted mother, “Bro, put some clothes on. Louis’ here—” but his voice breaks off immediately.

Yanking a water bottle out of the white-shelved fridge door, Niall cracks it open and clambers to his feet. Louis doesn’t even notice he’s moved. “You’ve gone all pale. Take this.” Niall urges, thrusting the drink into Harry’s limp hands. Louis finally reacts then, his gaze clumsily dropping to where Harry’s fingers are closing around air, aimlessly chasing the bottle.

Louis’ eyes flick back up and finally, _finally_ , the boy looks away. He firmly grasps the drink from the blond’s wind burned hands. “Oh, I’m fine.” Harry says, forcing a small smile over his dry lips. Louis tries to smile as well. He can’t.

Niall blinks at him, “Did you sit up too fast?” he nudges the water bottle, touching the boy’s knee with his own.

Harry visibly flinches at that, opting to down a good part of the water rather than address the comment. Niall seems to address it for him, placing a hand on the boy’s thigh in earnest.

“This is why I got the doormat in the first place, bro.” He articulates after each pat of his hand, and Louis suddenly remembers just what Niall’s doormat says. He might’ve laughed if he weren’t on the verge of throwing up.

Instead, he wonders how many times became _too many times_ of accidentally getting into bed with his passed out best mate, or at what degree of humiliation did Niall resort to purchasing an offensive doormat. Niall had said it worked. Not really, it seems.

Louis is halfway through boarding his train of thought when Harry’s voice pulls him back.

“I’m good, really.” Harry urges, after having swallowed another sip. Louis’ eyes are stuck on the slow bobbing of his Adam’s apple. He shifts his weight onto the other foot and hitches his bag farther up his shoulder. 

Niall jumps up to his feet, straightening out his jacket with flattened palms. He taps the matching pillow beside Harry’s elbow, “Lay back down. You can stay here tonight, I’ll go to yours.”

Harry’s about to protest, Louis can see it in the way he sighs and shakes his head, but Niall throws a stern hand up. “ _Only_ because I don’t know if you’ve got kit on under that duvet,” He runs a hand over his eyes, it silences Harry, “And I don’t want to find out.”

When Harry doesn’t say anything else, Niall plods up to and past Louis, dusting off his hands and kicking the mini-fridge door shut.

Louis continues to stand in the doorway dumbly, watching the way Harry caps the now empty bottle and then drapes the blanket back over himself. He rolls over towards the wall, the bed squeaking beneath him, and clumsily fluffs the pillow under his head.

But his chest isn’t rising and falling freely like it’d been when Louis had first barged in. It looks like Harry’s restraining his breathing, like he can _feel_ Louis’ stare on his back and he’s too afraid to move. The epitome of uncomfortable. Louis’ heart sinks.

Then, the light’s clicked off, a hand attaches to the back of Louis’ jacket, and he’s pulled out into the hall.

The door shuts behind them. “Sorry about that,” Niall chuckles dryly, leaning coolly against the slab of dark wood, “He’s got this bad habit of thinking my dorm is his when he comes home exhausted, even though they look nothing alike.”

Louis’ mind is still on the boy’s skin.

Niall’s laugh catches him off guard, “Breaking and entering aside, he’s a good lad. I’m sure you already knew that.”

Louis is suddenly very present. “What? Knew what?” He asks.

Niall laughs again, quirking an eyebrow and crossing his arms over his chest. The sound travels down the hallway. “That he’s a good lad. Has he not been? Has he already embarrassed himself? Is he majorly annoying? Spill.”

Niall looks very amused. Louis opens his mouth and then closes it. Twice.

That’s a lot of information all at once. Louis suddenly feels like it’s the first day of class, when he hadn’t even known the blond’s _name_ , but he could describe the colour of his eyes in a hundred different ways. He had been told a lot of information then, too, and here Louis is, thinking he and Niall were over the assaults of sudden and absolute confusion.

 _Not really_ , it seems _._

Niall gives it up, “Look, he’s been my best mate for a year,” he brackets his hips with his hands, “He’s very normal, I swear. The fanboy phase will pass.”

Louis’ only beginning to decipher the second word he’s said when the blond takes his bottom lip between his teeth, tilting his head to the side. The white-tinged ceiling lights only make him look paler.

“ _Bro,_ why’re you looking at me like that?”

To be honest, Louis isn’t quite sure he was looking at Niall in any way at all. He kind of feels like he’s looking through him.

Niall pushes off the door, “Have you blokes not met? He’s covering the Christmas musical again this year. You’re directing it. I figured you’d met.” he gawks, eyes wide and incredulous as he turns back towards his dorm, like he’s genuinely considering barging in, flicking on the light, and introducing Louis to the boy. 

But it’s already been done. Louis’ already met the boy. And now, he has enough information to feel closer to him than he ever has. Harry’s an English Lit major, writes for UToday, lives across the hall from Niall, is Niall’s best mate, and.

Oh.

_Oh my god._

Does it ever feel like the first day of the year.

“Oh yeah, we have.” Louis doesn’t know what’s more startling—that Harry’s actually a _second_ year student, or that Harry’s actually _the_ second year student, who was _obsessed_ with all things Tomlinson and for _a year,_ “I met him, uh, at the casting meeting.”

“Right on,” Niall releases a breath, smacking Louis on the shoulder lightly, Louis flinches, “Hope he didn’t make you read all his articles.”

“No. Not yet.” Louis chuckles humourlessly, raising his eyebrows and bracketing his hips with his hands. His eyes flick around the hallway, unbelieving, and his mind is racing a thousand miles an hour.

How could he have missed this?

How could Niall have not mentioned it?

How could _Harry?_

“Y’okay?” Niall utters, his smile stiff and puzzled as if he’s forgotten it there. He sounds like he should be frowning. Louis is suddenly enjoying his evening a lot less.

Louis clears his throat, “Yeah. I’ve really got to go.” he clears his throat again and it burns _._

“Okay?” Niall all but asks, but Louis’ already spun on his heels and began down the narrow hall. He’s through the exit doors and down the street seconds later, like he’d never gotten lost at all.


	5. Chapter Five

The following afternoon, Louis makes it all the way to the theatre’s front doors without letting his soap-operaesque revelation to enter his mind.

Louis’ been on a roll, if you’d ask him—breezing right past Zayn’s questions when he got in the night before, ignoring Niall’s texts this morning, and heading right out to rehearsal like nothing had changed.

“Because nothing has,” Louis whispers to himself, biting on his thumbnail incessantly, yanking the door open with the other, “It’s fine. It’s great. So what if he studied your every move for a year. So what if he knows more about you than you’d thought. So what if you had no idea. It’s _fine_ —”

“Wait up!”

Louis nearly falls through the doorway. He steadies himself on the door handle as the words finally register in his mind, and he would be mad not to recognize that voice now.

So he dives behind the nearest object.

It’s a short potted plant, the nearest object, and as Louis kneels behind the porcelain pot, his crossbody falls from his shoulder and lands by his feet. The sound of a latching door and rushed footsteps interrupts Louis’ silent prayer, and when Louis looks up, a familiar pair of eyes is looking down at him.

“Louis _,_ I’m so sorry about last night.” Harry gushes, treating him quite like a spooked animal, much less the victim of unsuccessful avoidance.

Louis scrubs his hands over his eyes. “No, uh—no need to apologize.” He declares, pinching the bridge of his nose for a moment longer.

Harry’s nose twitches. “Yes, there is.” He says, quietly.

Louis looks up at him, then. The boy’s peering down with the most endearing of inquisitive eyes, big and round and absolutely startlingly green compared to the redness of his cheeks—complementary colours, aren’t they? If Louis had learned anything in the arts, it’s that green and red look best when they’re beside each other, bring out the best in each other, especially whilst dancing across this boy’s face.

He looks beautifully frostbitten. Perhaps teachers don’t lie when they say you’ll be seeing the criteria again.

“No,” Louis shrugs. “There isn’t. A need.”

Harry pops out a hip, dragging a hand through the mass of matted curls upon his head. “So, why did you dart behind a potted plant when you saw me?” He crosses his arms over his chest, the least intimidating motion Louis thinks he’s ever seen.

“I didn’t dart—”

“Okay, _sidestepped_ _hastily_.”

“I don’t know what you’re on about, Harry.” Is what Louis settles for, and it’s only then that his mind registers the immense height difference. Of course, Louis has become accustomed to the difference in sightlines between him and the boy—he can describe the underside of Harry’s chin on demand—but god, does he ever feel like a child when he’s eye level with knees.

Louis debates standing up.

“You know exactly what I’m on about. It was unprofessional of me.” Harry murmurs, crossing his arms.

Louis crosses his arms instead. “Unprofessional? I barged in on _you_ ,” He says matter-of-factly, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, “It just threw me seeing you in Niall’s dorm. Like that.”

“It threw me too.”

A moment passes.

Louis groans a little too wholeheartedly, shutting his eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He asks.

The boy raises an eyebrow, and then actually lowers himself down to Louis’ level, sitting back onto his haunches. He dusts off his thighs nonchalantly, “That I often forget where my dorm is? I’m working on it.” he smiles slightly, and Louis wants nothing of it.

He groans, shoving irritably at the boy’s chest. Harry giggles like mad, wobbly on his crouched legs and bent ankles, until inevitably landing on his bum. His outrageously long limbs sprawl out on either side of Louis’ ankles. Wrenching his gaze away from Harry’s legs, Louis sits back too. 

Another moment passes.

“Why didn’t you tell me that you were Niall’s best mate?” Louis clarifies.

Harry drags both of his knees up to his chest and then plants his chin on his crossed forearms. He shrugs, saying, “Why would I tell you that? It would be quite a useless fact had you not known Niall yourself. Which, you _did_ know him, and neglected to tell me.”

It’s a good point. But Louis’ got good points, too. “Why would I tell you that _I_ knew Niall if I didn’t know that _you_ knew Niall?”

A third moment passes.

“So basically what I just said.” Harry clarifies.

It’s also a good point. “Yeah, I guess,” A forth moment. “Okay, so that’s off the table now, isn’t it. I’m no longer allowed to be angry about that.”

“You’re angry?”

“I was.”

“With me?”

Louis watches as the center of the boy’s eyebrows dart upwards, concern clear on his features. Sure, there might have been a slight moment of crossness, somewhere amidst the bare chest, tattoos, and splendor, but maybe that moment pales in comparison to the way Harry is looking at him right now.

Now, there’s a fluttering in Louis’ chest that he’s never felt before. “No, I was never angry with you.” Louis tells him, partly because it’s true, and partly because he doesn’t want to see the boy pout again. Louis was angry with himself and with the situation, and with the fact that he hadn’t figured it out sooner.

“Okay.”

“Okay.” Louis suddenly feels a lot more content. As content as he can be whilst crouching behind a potted plant, anyway.

There’s a pause.

“So—”

“Why didn’t you tell me that you’d covered the musical last year? I thought you were a first year or something.” Louis interrupts.

Harry blinks. “Am I really that bad?”

Louis almost laughs. “ _No_ , I mean, you were so nervous…”

Harrys already speaking, “You read my most recent article, so I, y’know, figured you’d read them all?” Louis did _not_ , thank you very much, “I’d been covering the Christmas musical for a year already, I figured you’d read them and just didn’t recognize my name. Maybe you forgot, or you were unimpressed, or I’m _irrelevant and inferior_. Something like that.”

“Well, I hadn’t, I wasn’t, and you’re not,” Louis admits, tugging at the strings of his jumper before sighing, “All that time spent writing about my every move, you poor soul.”

Harry shakes his head. “I liked it—covering the musical, I mean. I didn’t mind.”

Louis looks up from his hands, remembering the words Niall had told him on the very first day of class, “Well, you’re good at it.” He finishes.

The boy’s peering at him through a hood of matted curls, doe-eyed and red-lipped. “You mean that?” He asks.

Louis does. He lets his hands fall. “After all your kind words about my work, and I don’t think you realize how much of a fan I am of yours.” The honesty slips from Louis’ tongue before he can stop it, and he can actually see Harry’s heart swell.

He didn’t read the boy’s articles at the time, and maybe he doesn’t like revisiting that time now, but the boy might be able to change his mind.

For now, the boy stands to his feet, his hand outstretched. Louis takes it, the warmth engulfing his entire hand in seconds, before he pops upright. And it’s strange—not the gesture, but the feeling behind it. Louis feels like he’s done a three-sixty of emotion. This morning, he wanted to evaporate, and now… _now_ he feels like he’s made peace with the universe as a whole.

Until.

“There’s something else, actually.” Louis blurts, because why wouldn’t he? Harry stops, takes his hand back, and waits for Louis to continue. Reluctantly, Louis does. “So, I’d sort of been told about you on the first day of class.”

Harry looks like he might evaporate. “Explain.” He breathes.

“ _Ambiguously.”_

“Ambiguous, how?” He asks, his voice regaining to its fun little quiver.

Louis clears his throat. “I didn’t even know Niall’s name yet and he was already telling me about his theatre-obsessed best mate, who lives across the hall and writes for UToday—” a flash of genuine fear rushes through the greens of Harry’s irises, even if Louis has left out the whole _obsessed with you_ bit, “—but he never mentioned you again.”

Harry blinks. “And we never told each other that we’d met you.”

Louis sighs forlornly, a group of stagehands walk past them, “Y’know, this is all you guys’ fault. I’m convinced you two aren’t even mates. You clearly don’t talk to each other.”

“You’ve met Niall, _why_ would I talk to him about something like this?”

A moment passes.

Louis has never understood anything more clearly in his life.

Still, he releases a long sigh, placing his hands on his hips, “So long story short, _you_ never told Niall that you’d met me, _Niall_ never told you that he’d met me, and _I_ never put it together that yous are best mates. We’ve all been a part of a massively shady friendship triangle without knowing it.” Louis finishes, and Harry actually laughs.

Looking down briefly, “I think we have.” he whispers.

Louis thinks about that for a second. “And I ran away from Niall like I’d just seen a ghost. He probably thinks I hate you or something.”

Harry seems to think about that for a second too.

“I don’t, obviously.” Louis cuts in.

Harry looks up. “I don’t hate you either.”

“Good,” Louis tries not to think of the wave of colour washing over his cheeks, “Does this mean that you’re going to plan outings for the three of us?” Louis can already _see_ ice rink excursions in the boy’s mess of greens, “Because I’m slightly angry about that.”

Harry laughs wholeheartedly, “Only cool hangouts, you have my word.” he notes.

There’s a comfortable pause.

“Right, so,” Harry pushes his body backward, out from behind the plant and toward the center of the room like a normal person, and “Yeah, right,” Louis echoes, stepping forward, before realizing his bag is still on the ground behind him.

“Oh, wait,” He drops to his knees in front of the boy, grabbing the material strap as he jokes, “I’ve got notes in here, real valuable stuff.”

Harry’s opens his mouth to respond, take the piss probably, when a voice interrupts them.

“Hey, Louis— _oh_ ,” She walks up behind Harry, and then promptly _backs up_ entirely, “Shit. We’ll come back later.”

Louis’ brain disconnects from his mouth, “Emilie, hey,” he starts, and as Harry sidesteps in surprise, his back butting up against the wall with his hands up, like he’s bloody _caught_ , Louis finally gets it.

 _Oh_. “Oh, I wasn’t—we weren’t,” Louis has never stood up so quickly in his entire life. Nor, has he ever seen Emilie’s eyes widen so quickly. Fear floods his heart. “I was just grabbing my bag, it’s… I left it on the ground.”

Her eyes flick up and down. “Why was it on the ground?”

Louis blinks. “I left it there.”

She looks at Harry. Harry doesn’t even bother to nod along. Emilie looks as if she’s about to laugh and scream at the same time.

Until, “I like your bag.” another voice says.

It’s only then that Louis realizes Emilie said _we_ , and perhaps more importantly—there is young man standing beside her with anticipation in his blue eyes. Louis stares at the duo for a moment longer, watching both his reputation crumble and Harry relax his hands in his peripheral.

“Why, thanks,” Louis says, looking down at his bag pitifully, “I thought, _what can make me look even more annoying than I actually am_?”

To his surprise, the young man actually laughs, shyly and quietly, like he’s just heard the best punch line ever. His shaggy blond fringe flops down into his eyes, and for a moment it’s like time stops. There’s something about the young man. Something inherently good.

Emilie takes the moment to segue to more important matters, bless her, “Right. This is Aaron Peterson. He’s here for the role of Jack.”

☆

“I wanted to audition properly, but I just couldn’t. I’m a first year, so I’m still getting used to…” Aaron cuts himself off, gesturing vaguely to his surroundings, “ _All this_ , I guess.”

Louis’ eyes rake over his face, a small smile tugging at his lips, “No, I get it. I was the same way.” he admits, catching Emilie and Professor Miller smile in his peripheral.

Aaron’s smiling too, “My best mate completely freaked out when I told her I hadn’t auditioned. I either try out for this recast or lose my best mate, so,” Aaron laughs, his eyes fixed on the floor, “I figured I’d listen to her.”

“You picked someone supportive.” Louis chuckles, balancing his pencil in his hands. Aaron looks up quickly.

He’s smiling when he whispers, “Yeah, she really is.”

A moment passes.

“Well, let’s see what you’ve got, then,” Louis announces, interlocking his hands on the wooden tabletop, “Whenever you’re ready.”

Aaron nods quickly, and “Okay.” he swallows dryly, taking a step back. His shoulder blades bump the backboard behind him and embarrassment flashes over his features, his eyes bouncing back and forth between each of the three sets of eyes—and, for a moment, Louis thinks he’s about to crumble into a million pieces.

Then he opens his mouth. 

_Oh, somewhere deep inside of these bones…_

It’s as if all his fear crumbles to his feet, falling from his waving arms and sidestepping legs, landing on the floor in heaps that used to weigh him down.

_An emptiness began to grow…_

He’s scaling them now, using as a steppingstone to propel himself even higher, until his old self is long forgotten.

_There's something out there…_

Gracefully, he carries every word of the lament with passion, with _truth_. He’s solid and vivid and so sure of himself that Louis’ nearly loses him to the character.

_far from my home_

_a longing that—_

Not yet.

Louis raises his hand. Aaron freezes the second he opens his eyes, his arms dropping to his sides in an instant, “Sorry, I—thank you, Mr. Tomlinson.” he blurts, interlocking his hands at his waist, his eyes bouncing between Louis’ faster than ever.

Louis takes one look at the pride radiating off of both Emilie and Professor Miller’s faces before standing up.

“Welcome to the Nightmare Before Christmas, Jack.” Louis smiles, offering out his hand, and Aaron beams so widely it has Louis wondering how the role was ever performed by anyone else.

☆

“And I, _Aaron Peterson_ , the Pumpkin King!” Louis bellows, slamming the flat door behind himself, kicking off his shoes into the wall, “Have grown so tired of the same old thing!”

He bounds into the living room theatrically, sliding on the hardwood, “Oh, somewhere deep _—_ ”

“I think his name is Jack, actually.” Zayn interrupts, sitting with his back toward Louis, cross-legged on the coffee table. The sound of tiny electronic motors fills the small room, the split-screen race creating a halo of light around the boy’s head.

Zayn moves slightly, and “Yeah, Jack Skeleton or something.” Liam adds, sitting cross-legged in the boy’s lap.

“I know,” Huffing, Louis rounds the sofa, just as the screen living room lights up in some type of end-of-race celebration montage, “I meant, guess what just—”

Louis stops.

Mostly because they’re both wearing _full_ _costumes_.

Zayn is dressed in what appears to be a professional head-to-toe spandex Batman suit (with accompanying mask), and Liam is dressed as Robin, _maybe_. His off-green joggers and red polo are really flattening the illusion.

It takes a full five seconds for Louis to register what he’s looking at.

He checks his mobile’s date.

“Shit—it’s _Halloween_?”

“Every October thirty-first! Where’s your costume?” Zayn exclaims, tossing his game controller onto the sofa cushion. Louis watches as the boy’s arms return to Liam’s waist, the brunet erupting in shrieks as Zayn snakes his hands under his red polo shirt. How did Louis _forget_ it was Halloween?

Liam’s controller ends up somewhere on the hardwood, “Oh, no you don’t—stop! _Zayn_!” Liam screams through laughter, tumbling onto the floor with Zayn close behind, and “Loser gets tickled, you know that.” Zayn retorts, digging his fingertips into the valleys of Liam’s ribcage. 

“Your hands are _freezing_!”

“Wasn’t a problem earlier.”

“ _Zayn_! Oh my—”

“Uh, mates?” Louis tries, his voice quickly drowned out by their laughter and the happy electronic tune coming from the television, and. The day has really come, hasn’t it? Louis has officially lost his best mate to his lover.

Louis couldn’t be happier.

So he shakes his head amicably, and “Night, idiots.” Louis says, spinning on his heels. He makes it to the bottom of the staircase before the Batman mask hits him in the back of the head.

“You know I don’t like guessing.” His best make says.

Liam is still laughing when Zayn pulls himself off of him, long after Louis rounds the sofa and sits on the coffee table. The two boys end up sitting around each other like puzzle pieces, looking up from the floor. Zayn clicks off the game console with his foot.

Louis doesn’t waste a moment. “Aaron Peterson, first year acting extraordinaire, was cast today.”

It takes all of three seconds for Liam’s face to light up. “No way!” He gawks, slapping his hands down on Zayn’s knees as they bracket his hips, “That’s amazing, Louis.”

Zayn groans in discomfort when Louis beams, butting his head against the back of Liam’s neck, “Yes, truly spectacular news.”

Louis ignores his best mate’s blatant buzzkill-ery, because he _knows_ him—he can see the pride in his brown eyes no matter how hard the boy rolls them. Louis opts to flash Liam another smile. “Thank you. You have no idea how relieved I am.”

“Sure, I know how worried you were about that,” Liam continues, leaning back into Zayn’s touch, “Zayn even begged _me_ to audition for the lead. I’ve never acted a day in my life.”

Louis looks toward Zayn instantly, and “ _Shhhhh_ …” Zayn covers the brunet’s mouth, ducking his head into his neck again, before ultimately making eye contact with Louis, and—the jig is up.

Louis bits back a smile. “Thank you, too.” He says.

Zayn smiles back.

A moment passes.

Louis stands from the coffee table, “Well, I’m off. See yous in the morning—don’t be too loud.”

This time, Louis has barely moved before the boy is speaking, “You’re actually going to bed?” Zayn accuses, falling back on his palms. He stares at Louis from over his shoulder, his eyelashes impossibly dark.

Louis readjusts his polo matter-of-factly. “I am, yes.” 

“But it’s Halloween,” To be honest, Louis had blocked out the spandex Batman costume, _right_ , “We’ve got to celebrate.”

“Celebrate what?”

“Celebrate your new lead!” Liam interrupts cheerfully, springing to his feet. He outstretches his hand to Zayn, who _actually_ complies, saying, “Right! Cheers to Peterson. Order in a pizza. Watch a film. How’s that?”

Louis stares at the staircase for far too long.

Zayn continues anyway. Louis’ head snaps back to the couple standing before him—to Zayn, who’s patting him on the shoulder as he marches toward the side table, “Liam will order, I’ll choose a film, and you’ll call over your mates. We’ll have a proper night in.”

Louis blinks, spinning on his heels. “My what?”

Zayn reaches for the flat’s landline, tossing it to Liam. “Your mates. Harry and Niall.”

Louis blinks again, suddenly remembering just whom they are talking about. Having went straight to Aaron’s audition and subsequent rehearsal, and then practically sprinted home, Louis was so caught up in his extreme glory that forgot he even had mates—more importantly, where he left off with one of said mates in particular.

Oh god.

☆

“You did _what_?”

“No, it _looked_ like that. I was getting my bag _._ ”

“Why was it behind a plant?”

“Well, Harry—” It’s then that Louis remembers what Niall knows. But more importantly, what Niall doesn’t know.

He collects himself. “I bumped into Harry on the way in, and I dropped my bag,” Louis scoffs into the receiver, pacing about the foyer, “I was picking it up when Emilie came over.”

Niall is laughing so loudly Louis leans away from his mobile.

“I know,” Louis spins on his heels, rubbing a hand over his eyes as Liam shouts playfully from the living room. Louis lets his hand fall. “Right, so Zayn and his boyfriend are—”

“ _Niall?_ ” There’s mumbled talking in the background of Niall’s line, the same low rumbling voice Louis’ beginning to become accustomed to, “ _Is that Louis?_ ”

“Yes—” Niall starts, but then there’s the sound of a struggle on the other end, the sound of Niall batting away Harry’s hands and the string of choppy mechanical sounds that follow, until—

“ _Hi, Louis_!” The boy shouts into the mobile.

Louis hates how wide he’s smiling. He presses his forehead to the wood of his front door.

“Hi, Harry.”

Niall tries again, “Go away, we’re—” but “ _How did the audition go?_ ” Harry continues to shout into the receiver, ignoring the blond’s complaints.

Having the image of the boy’s terrified expression burned into his memory, Louis quite loves every moment of this. Not to mention the amazing visual in his mind. “Unbelievably well, Aaron’s incredible. Like, so good.”

“ _That’s great!_ ” and then, clear as day, “ _No, wait, Niall!_ ” the sound of Niall aggressively shoving the boy out of his dorm and latching the door.

The line silences.

A moment passes.

“Christ. Okay, I’m back,” Niall says finally, out of breath and panting, and Louis might actually be so smitten he could cry, “What’s this about Zayn?”

“We’re having a movie night. Do yous wanna come by?”

And before the tears fall, Louis hears the quite possibly the best response he could ever ask for. Muffled and strained, undeniably shouted through the door of Niall’s dorm, Louis hears Harry shout, “ _Be there in twenty!”_

☆

It’s not that Louis hates Halloween, definitely not.

He’s spent multiple Halloweens hobbling around horrid house parties with Zayn by his side, dressed in stolen theatre department costumes they’d _swear_ were borrowed, until crashing at Zayn’s house in the early hours of the morning. Mad Hatter and Cheshire Cat, Macbeth and Banquo, Sebastian and Flounder, Danny and Kenickie—just name it and they’ve done it, and maybe _that’s_ why Louis groans at the sight of Niall.

“ _Oh_ , that’s… a jersey.”

“Right it is,” Niall commends, as he idles in the doorway of the flat, “I’m a footie player.”

So Louis is a little over the whole dressing up thing. So Niall isn’t. So what. Louis can do this.

His eyes bounce back and forth between the red war paint splattered across Niall’s cheeks, the beer-stained Manchester United jersey he absolutely stole from Face Paint, and the shin pads strapped unevenly to his legs.

Louis blinks at him

Niall kicks the air for emphasis.

Right. He can’t do this.

Louis’ three seconds away from shutting the door and calling it a night when a voice calls from down the hallway. And to Louis’ absolute delight, it’s Harry jogging toward them.

The boy’s out of breath and panting when he reaches them, narrowly missing a recycling bin on the way, but he looks _normal_ —shirt and trousers, tousled hair and rosy cheeks, no costume in sight.

Louis smiles.

Until, “Sorry, I forgot my costume in the lift.”

Louis’ smile drops.

Niall is rolling his eyes, “Bro,” the blond starts, throwing his hands up, and to think Louis’ was finally getting over the drifting beer smell, “I told you not to put it down. I knew you’d forget it.”

“But it’s _heavy_.”

“What’s…” Louis’ stops himself there. It’s then that he spots the rather large potted plant wrapped lovingly the boy’s arms, marking this the second time potted foliage has made a noteworthy appearance in their lives. 

Both boys turn his way expectantly. They both look like they’re about to burst into hysterics.

A moment passes.

And, “I’m a tree hugger.” Harry says.

It takes Louis a full five seconds to comprehend that one. And before he can slam the door, face palm, and/or burst into flames, there’s a familiar voice ringing through the quaint foyer. It interrupts Niall and Harry’s laughter, and Louis doesn’t even have the time to knock the stupid plant out of his perfect hands.

It’s Zayn and Liam, rounding the staircase and appearing on either side of Louis. Harry and Niall meet their gazes seconds later, and Zayn has already tossed his arm over Louis’ shoulder, rubbing circles into his bicep.

He begins, like the proper host he is, “Welcome. I’m Zayn, this is Liam,” he looks at Harry, “And _you’re_ —you’re holding a potted plant.”

Niall’s already laughing again and Harry has never looked more unabashed in his entire life, Louis is sure of it. They look like they’ve just pitched the best idea ever.

Until, “Tree hugger.” Louis whispers, running a hand over his mouth.

Then Zayn is laughing harder than he ever has, and Louis is _actually_ sure of it. “Footie player and tree hugger,” He looks absolutely delighted, squeezing Louis arm, “God. _Where_ has Louis been hiding you two?” 

☆

“Okay, gents.” Zayn drawls, leaning against the television set like he’s about to pass out, “Let’s get back to business.”

He’s got a few DVD cases in hand, the majority of which are spread out around his feet, as the rest of the boys look on from their respective vantage points. Liam’s sat cross-legged on one sofa reorganizing the discarded DVDs, and Niall has sprawled himself out selfishly on the other, leaving Louis and Harry to sit on the ground in front of it.

“Oh, don’t worry, Niall,” Louis had said, as the blond boy launched himself headfirst into the cushions, “Harry and I will just sit on the hardwood floor.”

He was certain that Niall would catch on to his sarcasm.

Niall didn’t.

As Zayn fist-bumped the blond on his way over to the film cabinet (“I like you, Horan.”), Louis had looked toward a giggling Harry, and “Is he really…” Louis started, to which Harry shook his head amicably, “Yes… he is.”

So it’s achy and uncomfortable for his and Harry’s backs, sitting on either side of the coffee table, but as the group banters back and forth like they’ve been mates for _years_ —there are worse things. After all, it’s Halloween and food’s coming and he’s surround by his mates.

And, they’re ignoring Zayn completely.

“No chance they’re beating Chelsea.” Niall exhales.

Louis rolls his eyes into oblivion, turning his head toward the Niall, “Are you _kidding_? Poor Cassandra’s got a date with an idiot.”

Niall scoffs. “Cass _agrees_ with me. They’re seventh in—”

“ _Sure_ , but have you seen—”

Zayn clears his throat loudly, “Hey, idiots!” and to his surprise, both Louis and Niall actually stop yammering. Harry and Liam exchange an amused glance. Niall flicks the back of Louis’ neck. Zayn continues.

“God, you’re worse than Louis and me,” He groans, before looking down at the DVDs in is hands, “Right, it’s been a half hour and all we’ve done is narrow it down to Halloween, Halloween Two, and,” he shuffles through the cases, before promptly running his hand over his face in disappointment, “Halloween three.”

Niall scoffs loudly into his hand. Louis swats him back.

“Very on theme.” Niall applauds.

“Well, I’m not hearing any better ideas.” Zayn fires back, and now Louis is the one to scoff. To be frank, it’s nice that Zayn has already gotten to the Unashamed Banter stage in his friendship with Niall. Or maybe it’s just nice to have Zayn set his sights on someone other than Louis.

Either way, it’s safe to say that no one is expecting to hear Harry cut in, as he pushes his potted plant off to the side.

“How about the Shining?” He says.

The silence that follows is also unexpected, as the boy catches Louis’ eye and shrugs. He’s got the same unabashed look on his face, except this time, as Zayn slowly lowers the DVD cases and looks around, it may actually be the best idea ever.

☆

_Midnight with the stars and you…_

A flicker of light. A chorus of brass. A melody of keys. 

Slowly, Louis’ eyes flutter open in the darkness. It’s nearly pitch black, only the stinging glare of television light illuminating the room. The end credits of _The Shining_ roll up screen.

The jazzy tune continues to play on a low volume as Louis looks around, dazed and drowsy like he’s never seen his own living room before. Zayn and Liam ended up squished together on the sofa, arms under and legs over, bent in ways that couldn’t possibly be comfortable. Louis can barely pick out the outline of the brunet’s face as it tucks itself in Zayn’s neck, and for having only met a month ago, Louis must admit that they really do fit together like puzzle pieces.

Nevertheless, they’re sound asleep and so is Niall, who’d turned the sofa’s backrest into a footrest somewhere between Murmuring Danny and Screaming Wendy, and who is now snoring lightly behind Louis’ head.

As for Louis and Harry, the coffee table had been pushed up against the television to make room for their legs, and after flooding the newfound space with too many blankets and pillows to count—not to mention the incessant giggling and occasional knee knocking—maybe the floor wasn’t too bad after all.

They’d all been bundled up and drowsy by the time Axe-wielding Jack hit the screen, but Niall made sure to get in a _Here’s Johnny!_ or two before they’d all nodded off. 

Now, as the stark television light pours over their bodies, all of his past Halloween nights seem to pale in comparison to this exact moment.

Louis groans as he finally rubs the sleep from his eyes, promptly falling onto his back. The air rushes his lungs as he stares up at the ceiling, the shadows playing tricks on his eyes in the dim light.

And he’s cold—much colder than he was when he fell asleep, and when he reaches for a blanket, the entirety of it comes his way with ease.

Louis groans again, the sound incoherent yet still somewhere in the ballpark of confusion. If he remembers correctly, the body beside him had been hogging the blankets all night, and now… _now_ Louis is so warm he’s falling asleep again.

Something isn’t right. 

Louis pushes the blankets off himself and lets his arm fall on top of Harry.

It hits the hardwood with a deep thud.

 _Shit_. “Shit.” Louis murmurs, cradling his sore fingers to his chest as the sound ricochets around the room. The sound of movement soon fills the silence, and before Louis can apologize for waking someone up, he realizes that the stirring is actually footsteps.

“Louis?”

Louis sits up instantly, scanning the darkness until he lands on the source of the voice. It’s Harry, as he makes his way around the sofa.

“Louis, you awake?” Harry whispers hoarsely, and he looks paler than usual, Louis notes, the white light of the television washing out his skin, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t,” Louis inhales deeply, rubbing his hands over his face. He grabs at the blanket at his feet, draping it over his legs, “Why’re you up?”

Louis’ eyes follow the boy as he sidesteps carefully around his stupid potted plant, never once looking Louis in the eyes even though he’s clearly holding back a smile. He takes a seat beside Louis.

“I was thirsty.” He whispers, once crisscross on the hardwood.

Louis makes another one of those confused sounding noises. Harry motions to the cup of water in his hands.

 _Oh._ “Oh.” How did Louis not notice that?

And clearly, too many seconds have passed because Harry’s already begun to backpedal, “Sorry, I hope that’s okay, I didn’t want to wake you to ask—”

“No, no, have all the water you’d like. It’s free.” Louis says lamely, stretching the blanket onto the boy’s legs. He suddenly feels warm enough to share.

Harry’s eyes trace his movements. “Thanks.” He smiles.

A moment passes.

Harry takes a sip of water.

He takes another.

Until, “So, film’s over.” Louis points out dumbly, and Harry lowers the cup from his mouth. They’re sitting cross-legged on the hardwood, draped in the same blanket when there are plenty others, and that is what Louis comes up with?

Luckily, Harry’s observations are a little deeper. “Wanna hear something funny?” He asks. Recovering, Louis nods. Harry sets the cup down in front of himself. “I actually thought you were dating Zayn.”

“What?” Louis all but yells. He can’t help his whole-body reaction either, as he moves so much it nearly has the boy’s cup toppling over, “You thought _what_?”

“Watch it!” Harry’s laughing so hard he nearly knocks the cup over himself, water dripping down his wrists, “I said _thought_ —as in past tense.” 

Louis is horrified. “Why would you think it at all?” He breathes.

Harry downs the rest of his water. “Well you’re always ringing him or texting, and he picks you up on his bike after rehearsals…”

The sound of Niall stirring is purely background noise as Louis defends his honour, “No, no. _Never_. We’ve been best mates for fifteen years, he’s my brother.”

As the image of a Zayn-Louis relationship infiltrates the happy place that used to be Louis’ mind, Harry peers over his shoulder at the sleeping couple, “Not to mention Liam.” he adds.

Louis exhales then, biting back a laugh as he runs a hand over his face, “Right, and the fact that Zayn is currently in a relationship.”

“Right.” Harry echoes.

“Right.” Louis echoes back.

When Louis lets his hand fall, the boy is peering at something beyond him, like the drowsiness is finally beginning to take its toll. He’s slumped against the sofa, and soon enough Louis leans too, tracing the outline of the boy’s face with his eyes. The boy swallows lightly, and in the moonlight, his eyes are brighter than Louis remembered.

 _Beautiful_ , Louis can’t help but think, _he looks really beautiful_.

Then he’s looking Louis in the eyes, a smile just grazing his lips as the silence continues, and for a dumb moment, Louis wonders if he’s heard him.

“Mhm… bros?”

Louis looks away in an instant. Niall has rolled onto his side, his head inches away from Louis. It looks like it takes a considerable amount of energy for Niall to reach out and place his hand against Louis’ cheek, patting until both Louis and Harry break into hushed laughter.

“Film’s over,” Niall slurs, his eyes clearly still shut, “Time to go. School night.”

☆

A flicker of light. Electronic beeping. Rhythmic vibrating.

Louis throws his hand out toward his side table, nearly shoving his mobile onto the ground. “Hhm?” Louis slurs into the receiver, his eyes fluttering shut. Honestly, he’s just surprised he answered the call before it went to voicemail.

There’s a muffled sound on the other end.

It’s not a greeting, definitely not, but there _is_ someone there. So, Louis rolls onto his back, propping his forearm over his eyes as he tosses his mobile on his stomach, listening to the silence.

He’s two seconds away from falling back asleep when a voice cuts through. It’s so loud that Louis can hear it even while his mobile lays feet away from his ear.

“Louis?”

His mobile is back up to his ear in record time.

“Harry?” Louis checks the clock on his mobile, _2:54 am_ , “Why… what’s… how did you? Ring me?” and why can’t he remember how to formulate sentences properly?

The boy clears his throat. “There was a sticky note on the fridge when I went to get water,” Louis blinks repeatedly, drawing his bottom lip in between his teeth as Harry continues, “Said _emergency numbers_ on it.”

It takes a moment for Louis to get over how low his voice sounds when it’s rumbling through his mobile’s speakers. Sure, he’s talked to Harry more than a few times, but there is no way he could have been prepared for this. No amount of pointless conversation and experimental trials would have made this easier on Louis’ heart.

“Louis?”

It’s bloody _sinful_ , that’s what.

“I can assure you that this is not an emergency.” is what Louis goes for, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, but “It _is_ an emergency,” Harry counters, sounding quite like a child begging to stay up past his bedtime, “I swear.”

Louis would like to think that Rested and Responsible Louis would have hung up already. Maybe he can’t seem to focus on anything other than hearing boy’s voice again.

Louis smiles dopily into the sleeve of his jumper, because apparently, he’s doing this, “What kind of emergency?” he asks.

He can hear the sound of Harry forcing away a smile.

“I can’t play footie alone.” He says.

☆

“It’s three am on a school night and I’m breaking and entering a pitch.” Louis is dumbfounded. Completely and utterly dumbfounded.

But “Don’t think about it like that,” Harry definitely isn’t. He’s _laughing_ as he unlatches a chain-link gate with quick hands. “Think of it as like… the city getting full use of its investment.”

Louis can only watch helplessly as the gate swings forward, and “I’m sorry, are we the city in this scenario?” Louis covers his mouth with his hand, laughing into his gloves. Harry sidesteps with a smile, outstretching his hand theatrically.

A moment passes.

The boy doesn’t say a word.

The football shines under the moonlight.

Finally, Louis realizes what he is doing. “Oh,” Louis blurts, shrugging pompously as the boy laughs into the night, his breath a fog that crashes into his chest, “And they say chivalry is dead.” Louis bounces through the threshold, Harry dead on his heels.

“I’m just compensating.”

Louis winds his way through the underside of the stands, narrowly missing a metal beam. “For?” He entertains.

In the distance, the chain-link gate clinks as it shuts. “For how disrespectfully I’m about to kick your arse.”

Louis stops dead in his tracks. Mostly because Harry _doesn’t_. The boy is bounding past Louis not even a second later, sprinting through the winding rafters like it’s familiar, kicking up the frozen gravel with his shoes and lobbing the football out in front of himself.

Louis has lost him in seconds, but “C’mon, Louis!” he’s still shouting excitedly into the night, like a child, like no one else in the world can hear him, and for a moment, Louis is believes that no one can.

He doesn’t want to play anymore. He wants to run into the night and scream where no one can hear him.

But then he remembers that Harry copied down his number without permission and called him at three a.m. to disrespectfully kick his arse, which.

_It’s on._

☆

Having spent a regrettable amount of time playing footie video games, Louis is surprisingly terrible at the real thing.

Harry doesn’t seem to notice. Mostly because, “ _Louis_! Stop pulling!” as they say, if you can’t beat them, drag them down by their clothing. “Louis! I _swear_!” Or something like that.

Louis releases the fabric, both boys laughing harder than Louis ever knew they could, and “Keep up with me, then, Styles!” Louis taunts, hentirely shameless, as he finally snakes his foot under the football and boots it up the pitch.

Harry groans exasperatedly into the wind, but he’s smiling in Louis’ peripheral, “Oh, yeah?” the boy winds his way around Louis, sprinting up beside him and then _past_ him, “Keep up, Tomlinson! Next goal wins!”

Like proper footie players, both their eyes latch onto the distant football bouncing on the grass, their shoes smacking against the cold earth with every stride.

“Keep up!”

“ _Watch me_!”

They are heaving air in and out of their lungs like they’ll pass out any second, the football now feet away, the moonlight bounces off the metal of the goalposts, until—

Louis lunges forward and clips the top of the football, sending it careening toward the net.

And _over_ the crossbar.

“S _hit_!” Like a fallen solider, and with his hand still attached to the boy’s jacket, Louis collapses to frosted ground, Harry’s body following suit. They hit the ground with the same dense thump.

The chase comes to an end.

Louis’ head is swimming by the time they’re rolling onto their backs, exhausted and panting. Soon enough, they can’t even see each other through the puffs of breath.

Finally, “Did you almost…” The boy whispers.

Louis’ head washes ashore. “Disrespectfully.” He breathes.

Harry laughs into the crook of his arm, his words raspy and wind-blown, “Call it a draw,” he decides, running his hand over his face, “Mostly because I can’t be bothered to get my ball back.”

Across the pitch, the golden glow of early sunlight is peaking over the stands, glaring rainbows into Louis’ tear-blurry vision. He can hear the sound of the city waking up around them, the grass wet with early morning dew.

“A draw.” Louis says.

“A draw.” Harry agrees, as they shut their eyes in unison.

It’s then that Louis realizes what’s just happened.

On one hand, it’s not like it was Louis’ idea. Harry had dialed _him_ , with his rolling voice and perpetual charm, and maybe Louis wasn’t in the right mind to make an informed decision.

On the second hand, all of the first hand is rubbish and he’s watching the sunrise on a pitch after just having played a real-life footie match, with Harry beside him and a lecture starting in two hours.

They sigh in unison.

Louis hasn’t felt this alive in years.


	6. Chapter Six

“Hey, Louis.”

“Louis?”

“Do you just _like_ to ignore me, or—”

Louis’ eyes shoot open, and “ _Shit_ , I’m sorry,” he yawns, sliding up in his chair before he slides onto the ground, “I’m listening.”

“No,” Niall says, his face trained on Professor Miller as she intros their latest assignment, like he’s actually retained something from her rightful yet hopeless scolding, “No, you’re not.”

So maybe he wasn’t. But maybe it isn’t his fault. Maybe he’s been going out at midnight to play footie for the past _two_ _weeks_ and he’s a little exhausted. Maybe he doesn’t mention that bit.

“I’m tired.” Louis deadpans, wiping the sleep from his eyes.

Niall gives Louis a snobbish sideways glance, “I know, you were snoring a minute ago.”

Louis pries his eyes away from Professor Miller when she turns toward the blackboard, “Well, it’s rude to wake someone, Niall.” he jests, elbowing the blond under the table.

Niall doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t even elbow Louis back. Instead, he scoffs humourously, “Ha, great joke. Now, one question,” he turns his face toward Louis’, whose eyebrows have now furrowed in some type of fear as Niall stares at him unrelentingly, “Do I wanna know why Harry came home at three this morning and you look like you didn’t go to bed _until_ three?”

A moment passes.

“Half-two, actually.” Louis shrugs his shoulders, swallowing roughly in a room that suddenly feels a lot drier. He averts his attention to the lecture, smiling politely when makes eye contact with Professor Miller—three parts avoidance, one part interest.

“Oh, excuse me.” Niall actually laughs at that, the real kind, the kind that has his blond hair flopping down into his eyes.

Louis is laughing, too. He runs his hand over his eyes in defeat when Professor Miller turns her back, “Fine. On Halloween, he saw my number on the fridge and—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever you say.” Niall interrupts, waving his hand between them.

Louis’ mouth falls open in protest, “Seriously Niall, we just play footie—” but Niall’s already moved on, turning his torso to face Louis.

A moment passes. Louis opens his mouth again. The blond shushes him with his index finger.

“You have my blessing.” Niall says.

Louis chokes back a laugh, “Are Harry and I getting married or are you Harry’s father?” he jokes, and judging by the way the blond’s eyes well up with actual tears, “Shit, you’re _serious_?” Louis whispers, leaning into Niall as his hands drop back into his lap.

After having just given away his best mate like a daughter, Niall looks poised and proud and _not_ entirely insane. He turns his attention back to Professor Miller, not even sparing Louis a second glance.

Right.

Louis rolls his eyes amicably, returning to the lecture. Professor Miller smiles at him in between her endless analogies and Louis smiles back, but not before leaning over to Niall.

“Blessing accepted.” He whispers.

☆

Caught in the wind, a paper darts down the pavement toward Louis.

“Oh, shit,” Louis lets go of the theatre’s door handle and lunges backward, stomping his foot down onto the loose sheet, “Got it! I got it—” He stops himself there. Because he is looking down at his own handwriting.

Sliding his shoe to the side, Louis watches as the rough outline of a blocked stage appears, with a familiar name highlighted at the top. He bends down to scoop up the paper, gravel-covered and crinkled, and “Aaron?” Louis says quietly, looking up through his fringe.

He scans the small groups of students around him, from the theatre’s perimeter to the large steps, to the pavement and street below, and then he sees him.

Aaron’s on his hands and knees nearly twenty feet away, attempting to slap his hands down on each paper as it whirls around in the wind, his bag open and empty at his side, his notebooks strewn about him.

Louis almost laughs.

“ _Oi_ , Aaron!” Louis shouts, hiking his own bag further up his shoulder as he closes the distance between them. He dusts off the stage outline on his coat and steps up to the blond, flattening out the wrinkles, “You almost lost this one.”

When Aaron looks up, fear rushes through Louis’ chest.

Because the blond is flushed and wind burned, his chest heaving up and down choppily, tears sloshing about on the rims of his blue eyes. He looks petrified, not even _breathing_ , frozen in place—the last of his production sheets fluttering down the pavement and out of sight.

“Breathe,” Louis says before he even realizes he has, nearly dropping his own bag as he clambers down to Aaron’s side. Louis’ eyes flick up and down the walkway hastily, trying desperately to gauge what has just happened—someone, something, _anything_ —but he sees nothing.

Aaron just stares at Louis, eyes wide and trembling in the cold air.

Louis’ voice is unwavering, “Breathe,” he orders, his hand darting up to the boy’s back, rubbing circles into his spine, “It’s okay. Don’t worry about the sheets, we can rewrite them.”

Then Aaron exhales, sharp and rapid and watery, and it’s like floodgates have opened. He doesn’t stop taking and releasing breaths, his back hunching over as he covers his mouth with his sleeved hand, quickly nearing something like hyperventilation.

Without thought, Louis’ hands bracket the blond’s head, yanking Aaron’s face in front of his own, “Listen, breathe with me… like this.” Louis directs, drawing large breaths of air into and out of his lungs.

Aaron’s panicked eyes flick back and forth between Louis’ eyes and mouth, his breaths actually shortening, and “Just like this,” Louis continues to control his breathing, moving his hands upward and downward with each breath, “In and out.” and slowly, _finally_ , Aaron shuts his eyes and begins to breathe along with him.

They kneel on the pavement for what feels like hours, breathing in and breathing out, until the fear drains from Aaron’s eyes and his shoulders begin to relax, Louis’ attention never straying from the blond.

“I’m…” Aaron begins eventually, once he’s exhaling normally, and Louis lowers his hands from his head. His gaze immediately drops to the ground in what looks like shame, wiping the dried tears from the corners of his eyes, “I’m so sorry. I…”

Louis is already rounding up the blond’s papers and notebooks, “None of that,” he says, grabbing a hold of the brown bag and sliding the contents back into it, “How are you feeling?”

Aaron clears his throat dryly, “I’m okay, thank you,” and then promptly releases a small sound of frustration when he meets Louis’ gaze, “God. I’m so sorry, Mr. Tomlinson.”

“Louis.” Louis corrects, sliding the fastened bag across the pavement toward the blond. Aaron looks down again when the fabric buts up against his reddening hands.

Then, “What’s happened?” Louis asks.

Aaron’s eyes stay trained on the ground.

“Aaron,” Louis inches closer to the blond, slowly, “Did someone do this to you?”

Louis is about to place a hand on Aaron’s forearm when the boy shakes his head. Louis’ eyes scan the profile of the blond’s face—from his feathery fringe as it moves in the wind, to the way his eyes are catching the late morning light.

He doesn’t believe him for a second. “Aaron, please…”

“I was running too fast. I tripped on the pavement and fell,” He brushes the dirt from his palms, wiping his nose on his sleeve as his voice breaks in the middle, “I just wanted to tell you before rehearsal started, and I—”

“Tell me what?” Louis interrupts, the truth in the blond’s trembling tone like a slap to the face. He’s a lot more convinced now.

Aaron bites back another sob, his eyebrows furrowed. “I think you should find a new lead.”

“What?” Louis blurts instantly, the words alone causing a shiver to run down his spine, never mind the disgrace that’s painting itself on the blond’s features. That part’s even worse. “Aaron, why would you say that? Who’s made you think that? We’ve only just started—”

“No one,” He manages to get out, the pavement below him spotting with fallen tears, “It’s all me.”

Louis can’t seem to fathom that. “Where is this coming from?”

The blond offers up no words, only the hushed sound of him swallowing. But Louis remembers the joy on his face when he auditioned for the part only two weeks ago, the light in his eyes when he finally began to nail his character, the _certainty_ in his voice in each and every rehearsal since the day he became the lead.

All to be blown away like his papers on the pavement.

Not a chance. Louis places his hand on the blond’s, “I know how much you love being a part of this musical,” he squeezes, “I’ve seen it and I believe it.”

“I just…” He begins, losing the words before he can articulate them, “I’m really grateful, Mr. Tomlinson, really,” Louis lets the proper name slide, biting back his correction, “It’s just. I’m a _first year_. I know nothing compared to my castmates and I had such a late start.”

Louis can’t believe what he’s hearing. And he is taking absolutely none of it. “Age does _not_ define talent,” Louis says earnestly, immediately, trying his best to douse out any sparks before they catch, “The fact that you are a first year is the best part. You’re one of youngest in our cast and you have just as much talent as everyone else—even more, if I’m honest.”

And suddenly, Louis is looking at himself. Aaron looks up. There’s something brighter in his eyes. There’s something brighter in Louis’ too.

 _Thanks, Zayn_.

“You’re our lead—our wonderfully talented, show-stopping lead. It’s only up from here.” Louis finishes.

A moment passes.

“Okay.” Aaron whispers.

Louis stands to his feet, brushing off the gravel from his trousers, “ _Okay_? Everything’s _okay_?” he mocks, offering out his hand to the blond, “Just _okay_?”

Aaron takes it, and “It’s great _._ Everything is great,” he laughs lightly, wiping his nose on his sleeve, “I’m sorry.”

“Now, Mr. Peterson, that was quite a scare,” Louis says once they’ve begun walking toward the theatre’s doors, “I now expect you to march into rehearsals and absolutely smash it.”

The wind rustles up his blond fringe as he slings his bag over his shoulder, a smile retuning to his face.

“I’m your lead.” Aaron says.

☆

When Louis opens the flat door and sees Harry staring back at him, his mind kind of just disconnects from his mouth.

“What—you—hello.”

Harry smiles so widely his lips part, “Hey, Louis. Is Zayn in?”

Louis really should have known. Playing footie with someone who plays more virtual footie than the real thing must be a horribly awful experience—definitely worthy of terminating a friendship. Or whatever they have going on. Not-so-friendship. Friends-with-your-mate-ship.

Louis shifts on his feet, “No. He’s… he’s at work, actually.” and maybe Louis hates how miserable he sounds.

Harry actually giggles. “Great. Can I come in?”

 _Oh_. “Oh,” That takes Louis for a whirl. His face contorts into some horrid expression he knows he’ll re-enact in a mirror later, and “Yeah, sure.” he says, stepping to the side with an overly dramatic wave of his hand.

It’s only when he’s shut the door behind Harry, ripped his eyes away from the wide span of his sinful back, and gained whatever’s left of his composure, that Louis notices the white tied-off box balancing on Harry’s open palm.

Louis stops.

In hindsight, maybe it’s the smell that caught his attention, as it is absolutely _heavenly_ —really, why hadn’t he noticed this before? It’s big and looks heavy and is most obviously food. Though, Louis likes to think he has a completely valid reason.

There’s an obscenely pretty boy in his foyer, here for _Louis_ , who _cares,_ and is remotely _interested_ , and brought him _food_ , which. Even if Louis died now there would be nothing disappointing about it. This might be the biggest advancement in his life to date. After whatever’s in that box, obviously.

“Is this a bad time, Louis?” Harry’s voice barely cuts through Louis’ internal rambling, and when it does, Louis’ left confused.

He follows Harry’s line of sight to the sheets sprawled out on the coffee table and his cheeks instantly flush. There, among the highlighters, sticky notes and all, is some sort of tasteless rerun playing on the television and a half finished juice box with a chewed straw leaking onto his binder.

Louis picks up the juice box. “Oh this, _no_ , just working on a stupid project.”

The boy laughs, covering his mouth with his hand. “That’s mean, Louis,” He points out, and why does he insist on using Louis’ name in every sentence? “What did the project ever do to you?”

“Too much,” Louis says, backhanding the juice carton into the kitchen, “Wasted my time, insulted my intelligence, disrespected my name, etcetera.”

“Oh?” Harry’s laughing again, hulling his jacket from his shoulders, nearly dropping the white cardstock box, “What’s it on?” he cranes his neck, looking as if he’s genuinely attempting to make sense of Louis’ scrawling mess, but that ends sharply when Louis opens his mouth.

“A study of nineteenth century theatre playwrights.”

“What a stupid project.”

Now Louis’ the one to laugh, “Glad you’ve seen the light.” he jests, sitting on the arm on the sofa as the boy shakes his head in disbelief.

A moment passes. 

The scent hits Louis again. And, in one of his most impolite moments yet, “Now, I believe you’ve brought me some type of relief?” Louis pries.

Harry looks confused for a moment. Louis gestures to the box of pastries in the boy’s hand, that of which the boy lingers on Louis’ face before acknowledging.

“Oh, right.” Louis watches his Adam’s apple bob as he clears his throat, and his fingers as he slowly unties the box’s ties, “I thought I would bring some favourites over from my shift.”

Favourites would be an understatement. As, if Louis’ eyes don’t defy him, there are _four_ éclairs, golden and glistening, beside two powdery-looking numbers. This might just be the cure to his stupid project. And world peace.

Louis all but shoves his head into the box, before realizing what the boy’s just said.

“Your _what_?” Louis gawks.

Harry’s already shoved one of the powdery things in his mouth. “Sorry?” He slurs.

“From your _shift_?” Louis whispers.

Harry looks up through his eyelashes. And maybe the look on Louis’ face was a little less appreciative and a lot more of _panic-stricken_ , because Harry looks suddenly alarmed.

“Yes? At Arch.”

 _Oh my god._ “Oh my god,” Louis gushes excitedly, throwing his hands over the boy’s powdery ones. And, as the list of things Louis _should know but ultimately doesn’t_ continues to grow, “You _work_ at Arch? Why didn’t you tell me? Oh my god—”

“Slow down, you’ll knock them over!” Harry exclaims, eyes crinkling at the edges, and this must be why Niall loves the café, “ _Yes_. I started in first year to help cover tuition, worked up to a part time baker, Why is that— _Louis_!”

Thank god for Harry’s reflexes, because Louis’ excited ass knocks the box off his knees. The boy catches it, saving the pastries from their peril, but Louis doesn’t care, he _does not_ care—because this all means one thing.

He knows a baker at Arch. He has an _in_ at Arch. He’s set for life.

Louis stands to his feet in an instant. “Tea. Would you fancy a tea?” He asks, not even waiting for a reply before jogging into the kitchen.

The boy stands. “What about your project?”

“What about it?” Louis tugs down two mugs, Harry moving in Louis’ peripheral, but “You stay right there, you perfect, employed human.” Louis turns to him, already having plugged in the kettle. 

“You’ve gone mad,” Harry giggles before plopping down on the sofa, “Hurry, I’m going to eat all the éclairs.”

He wouldn’t.

He doesn’t. By the time Louis’ returned with their teas, bags of crisps, and packages of sweets, Harry’s barely started on his first. And by the time they’ve finished five episodes of reruns, empty white box strewn somewhere on the hardwood, Louis’ legs over his and his warmth engulfing Louis’ body, sun tucked behind the skyline—Harry finally speaks.

“You’re not getting free food, y’know.” He whispers, voice barely louder than the drone of the television, and Louis snorts into his sleeve.

“I can’t believe you’d think that.”

“I mean…”

“That I _wouldn’t_ get free food. You’re underestimating me.”

Harry’s chest shakes as he laughs, nearly spilling the rest of his tea. He takes another chip from the bag at his side, his movements stirring Louis’ head ever so slightly.

For a moment, the television screen lights up his textbooks, notebooks, and stick notes. Light glints over Oscar Wilde’s portrait, over scrawled dates and titles, and Louis has never been happier to take a ten percent late deduction in his life.

☆

Louis is nearly asleep when he hears it.

It’s quiet at first, merely background noise as it vibrates in Louis’ back pocket.

Harry begins to stir, “Is that you?” he asks.

“Think so.” Louis sits up slowly, adjusting his shirt as he fishes out his mobile. It continues to vibrate in his hands as he attempts to read the name, running his hand over his eyes to shake off the sleep.

“Who is it?” Harry follows suit, shifting his hips before leaning back against the sofa’s backrest. He peers at Louis through heavy eyelids, yawning into the back of his hand.

Having been in the dark for so long, the mobile’s light is stark and harsh on Louis’ eyes. But, slowly but surely, her contact name becomes clear.

Louis feels stomach drop.

Harry yawns again. “Lou—”

But Louis is already standing, the crisp crumbs and sweet wrappers clambering to the ground, as he bounds around the sofa and into the foyer.

He accepts the call the moment Harry is out of earshot, but can’t seem to lift his mobile to his ear. He watches the timer slowly pass five seconds, ten seconds, fifteen seconds, and for a moment he wonders if the call was dropped…

“Baby? Are you there?”

He raises up his mobile. His hands are shaking.

“Yes.” He says.

“Oh, sweetheart,” She breathes endearingly, and Louis can _hear_ her expression, “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

Maybe it’s the late hour that’s stripped Louis of his filter, or maybe he’s finally had it, because there isn’t a single fibre of Louis’ being that can play along with this right now.

“I told you not to ring my mobile. I told you to text me. Ringing is for emergencies.”

“Did you? Oh, I’m sorry…”

“You knew, don’t do that,” Louis knows how bothered he sounds, but it falls from his tongue without thought, without regret, “I told you.”

He hears her swallow on the other end of the line, “I know, baby, but you rarely answer when I text you, and…”

Maybe she’d take the hint. “I’m busy with uni. I don’t use my mobile much.” Louis excuses half-heartedly, shifting his weight onto the other foot.

A moment passes.

“Well, I forgive you, because that’s what—”

“I’ve got to go.” Louis interrupts, and then he’s dropping his mobile from his ear, ripping away her voice before she can talk him back to her.

He stands still in the foyer for what feels like ages.

He blinks away any signs of her.

He pockets his mobile.

Then, he hears the sound of a crisp bag rustling, the electronic hum of a television, the muffled laughter of a boy waiting for him, and he’s pushing himself back into the living room.

Louis makes it to the doorway, seeing nothing but the blurry outline of the back of the boy’s head, its darkness smearing into the bright television screen behind it. He takes a deep breath, shaking the weakness from his knees.

With a creaky floorboard, the boy is speaking into the air, now wide-awake. “Oh, Louis, you _have_ to try this. I dropped a crisp in the tea on accident, and I think I might be pregnant because I _swear_ it tastes so good, like _so_ good.”

Louis didn’t realize he’d made a sound, barely audible over the hum of the television, but somehow it’s enough to make the boy’s shoulders tense up. And like every bit of Louis’ being wishes he wouldn’t, the boy’s turning around on the sofa—television programme, stupid project, and disgusting chip-tea long forgotten, arms lying slackly in his lap.

“What's happened?” He whispers.

Louis stares at him for way too long.

So long, he finds himself watching the glint of light in his dark irises, studying the slope of his cheekbones, counting the freckles over his nose. So long, the boy begins to tilt his head in confusion, to shift in his seat, to open and close his mouth like he’s fighting back the words.

And maybe part of Louis wants to just tell him, to finally open up to someone other than Zayn, but—

“Nothing’s happened.” Louis whispers back.

This seems to only make the boy’s worry worse, but something flashes across his face then, something Louis wasn’t expecting to see.

 _Empathy_.

And then, “Lie with me?” he asks.

Louis’ head flicks back towards him. It’s not as if he didn’t hear—it’s _what_ he heard.

“What?” Louis asks, flat.

“Lie down, would you like to…” Harry stops, and he looks like he’s searching for words, words that will make his words any less forward, less unexpected, “Come here?”

Even more unexpected, Louis is already moving toward him.

He plods around the sofa and throws his mobile on the table, pushing away the flutter of strangeness in his tummy as he watches the boy sink into the sofa, and the swelling in his chest when the boy pats his hip invitingly. He avoids the boy’s eyes when he slowly, fragilely, lays his body down beside him, tucking his body into the boy’s side.

Harry wraps his arm around Louis’ shoulders next, silently and gently, and it might just be the safest Louis’ felt in a long time.

☆

Sunlight.

There’s a ray of sunlight in Louis’ eye.

“Mmh…” He moans irritably, stretching out his blanketed legs and tossing his forearm over his face, “Would you _shove off_ —”

“Sorry?”

Louis freezes instantly. Fearfully, he lowers his forearm. Zayn is sitting in the armchair beside the sofa, one skinny jean clad leg strewn over the other, Batman mug nestled tightly in between his palms. He’s just taken a sip, staring down at Louis’ crumpled body pitifully as he covers his mouth with his hand.

“Oh, love.” He whispers.

It’s then that Louis remembers where he is. And where Harry isn’t. Memories of the night before flood his mind. He looks around himself quickly—over the millions of papers, sweet wrappers, empty crisp bags, and incomplete projects—and then rubs at his eyes.

Her voice is still ricocheting in his head. “What time is it?” Louis slurs, his voice groggy and scratchy.

Zayn takes another sip. Dust particles are catching the light. “Half seven. G’morning.”

Louis opens his eyes then, the ray of sunlight having migrated to his cheekbone. “Shit. I’ve class at nine.”

“I know,” Louis’ halfway to groaning again when he boy laughs, “I was planning to wake you at eight.” 

Louis slowly props himself up, the room spinning as he drags one leg up on the sofa cushion. He wraps his arms around his knee, using it to prop his head up as he peers at Zayn.

“And what about the half hour until then?”

“Thought I’d enjoy my tea.”

Louis laughs into the sunlit air, finally rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

A moment passes.

“Talk to me.” Zayn says, eventually.

Louis looks up. His smugness has been replaced with something a little more concerning, his mug lying forgotten in his lap. Louis wants to tell him that she called again. Louis wants to tell him that she’s been calling for a while. Louis wants to tell him that Harry didn’t even hesitate, that the boy bit back his questions and instead outstretched his arms, holding Louis until he fell asleep.

But, for the first time in fifteen years, Louis doesn’t know how.

Zayn notices this. He’s speaking again before Louis can, “When I got in last night, Harry was draping a blanket over you,” Louis drags his palm over the softness of the blanket at his feet, “You were out cold. He told me to keep an eye on you and headed home.”

Louis looks up again. “Right…” Louis echoes incredulously, before planting his forehead against his kneecap, remembering the boy’s hands running over his skin, “He did, didn’t he.”

“I’m glad he could.”

When Louis lifts his head again, Zayn has returned to his tea. The ray of sunlight has traveled to the boy’s face—he’s golden.

☆

Two days later, Louis’ barely shut the theatre door behind himself and the boy’s already on him.

“Hey Lou,” Harry says, hiking up his bag as he pushes off the wall, “How are you?”

Louis’ not entirely sure when nicknames became a thing, but then again, he’s not entirely sure when waiting for each other became a thing either. So he smiles and strides up next to the boy, his eyes flicking to the boy’s face when he grins.

 _He looks different in daylight_ , Louis notes, _brighter_.

But the white cardstock box in his hand looks the exact same.

Louis nearly laughs. “Still don’t think you’re underestimating me?” He gestures toward the boy’s hands, to which Harry forces away a smirk, “And I’m all right, thank you. Thank you for the other night, too. I didn’t mean to make it… uh,”

“Don’t mention it,” The boy hands over the box, not a single hesitation in his actions, “It’s just a muffin, to hold you over during rehearsals.” he explains, and Louis opens the cardstock lid eagerly.

The smell engulfs them in seconds and, like he’s living the dream, Louis begins toward the stage, “So, what’s your next article about? I hear—”

But Harry doesn’t walk with him. He’s stood still when Louis turns back, hiking his bag up again, “Actually, I have to go. I’m off to the library to work on my creative writing assignment. It’s worth a massive part of our grade, my prof handed it out this morning and everyone’s losing their wits.”

“Oh,” Louis says bluntly, the muffin dangling in front his mouth, before remembering that Harry actually isn’t a stagehand, or an actor, or Louis’ _personal rehearsal pal_ —he’s a volunteer student journalist with a programme and a job of his own to take care of. And the fact that Louis’ forgotten that is the best part.

Before any remorse can flash across the boy’ eyes, Louis quickly steps forward to crowd his space. “Good luck, Haz,” Louis says earnestly, ripping his muffin in half and handing the boy the bigger side, “Brain food. Keep your wits in check.”

Harry blinks for a moment, before chuckling into the space between them, “Thank you—”

“Can I see you later? Maybe come by yours?” Louis interrupts before he even realizes he has, and a smile tugs at the corners of Harry’s mouth.

He takes the piece of muffin from Louis. “I miss _one_ rehearsal…” He cuts himself off when Louis pushes at his chest, his mouth too full to banter.

And, “I’d really like that.” Harry finishes, crinkles appearing beside his eyes.

☆

**From: Haz**

**6:38 PM**

_just a reminder: second floor, dorm thirty five :)_ _x x x x_

**From: Lou**

**6:38 PM**

_almost there. a reminder for me or for you?x_

**From: Haz**

**6:39 PM**

_ha, niall told me about your little mishap xx_

**From: Lou**

**6:40 PM**

_…i’m going to kill him_

It’s been said that you can tell a lot about a person by the colour of their bedroom walls. The problem is, Louis can’t see them.

“Don’t get mad at Ni for telling me, I do it all the—”

“Oh my god, _shut up_.” Louis gasps, bracketing himself in the doorway of Harry’s dorm. He’s got one hand on either side of the doorframe, his knees nearly buckling beneath him, as the boy stops dead in his tracks.

Slowly, idling in the center of the room like he’s giving a show-and-tell, Harry spins on his heels.

“Sorry?” He asks, the panic clear on his soft features, and “Shit, sorry. I don’t mean you. I mean,” Louis backpedals, gawking, “Just… look at this.”

It looks like it takes a considerable amount of energy for Harry to pull his eyes away from Louis. And when he does, he barely takes a proper look around the dorm, like all of this is completely normal.

Except, it really bloody isn’t.

Each wall—left to right, ceiling to the baseboard—is coated with newspaper clippings, posters, and photographs. They’re both overlapped and triple taped, peeling off and ripped, like they’ve been there for ages but somehow also haven’t, like some type of weird time capsule of the last year and a half.

It’s as if the boy started to pin things up, just casual photos and memorable quotes, until slowly it began to spread, organically and infectiously, covering the walls in a network of paper and ink.

This… _this_ is the inside of Harry’s heart.

The boy’s eyes land on Louis again. “Look at what?” He asks, flat.

Louis takes a step forward, still incredibly dumbfounded, “This is…” Louis has barely covered one foot of the room when the boy speaks again.

“Sorry for the mess,” Harry picks up his blanket from the ground and tosses it on his bed, as if Louis had noticed it, “I was working at the library all day.”

“Right, yeah,” Louis repeats absentmindedly, attempting to hold whatever’s left of this conversation as he steps up to the wall closest the boy’s bed. It’s the most elaborate wall, Louis notes, with actual markings on the clippings and pictures. Underlines, highlights, little sentences and words—Louis can picture the boy lying here, living here, pouring his soul out here, “How’s that coming along?”

“All right, I think. I hope.”

There are words to follow each way Louis looks, he can’t seem to stop reading them, “That’s...” he trails off, and he can hear the boy shift on his feet, like he’s trying to get Louis to pay attention to him, but Louis’ too busy reading the wall to notice:

_Be a lover, give love, choose love, love everyone, always._

Louis scrambles to finish whatever thought he had and lost, “That’s… great.” and “Yeah, it’s great.” The boy interrupts, his voice distant and quiet, like he’s much farther away than he actually is.

It’s change enough to break Louis’ concentration. When Louis turns back around, the boy’s gaze is on the floor, his arms hanging timidly at his sides. He looks like he’s embarrassed, like he suddenly regrets allowing Louis into his dorm, and fear instantly rushes Louis’ chest.

Partly because Louis’ stepping forward before he even realizes he is, “All day?” he jests, crowding the boy’s space until he finally looks up, meeting Louis’ eyes, “I recall you texting me quite often this afternoon, Haz.”

And, like the beautiful boy he is, the boy smiles.

“Multitasked.” Harry whispers.

“Oh, did you?” 

“I did.”

Louis is smiling too. “Well, in that case,” He begins, slinking by the boy’s shoulder towards the other corner the room, occupied by an equally cluttered desk and tall bookcase, “You should be free for rehearsal on Wednesday.”

Harry scoffs lightly, and Louis can hear him shuffle behind his back, “Of course. Will you be there?”

Louis steps up to the bookcase. He lets his fingers run over the bumps and divots of the spines, the rows and rows of novels, “Sadly, with or without you.”

“Sadly?” A group of loud students pass by the dorm, their voices carrying down the hallway as Harry’s voice carries over to Louis, “Well, we can’t have that.”

Louis likes this. In fact, he likes this so much, he’s willing to drop his book inspection, spin on his heels, and crowd the boy’s space all over again.

Something catches his eye before he can.

Louis slides a book out from its place, “Hey,” Louis begins, turning back toward the boy who has taken a seat on his bed, “Why are…” he slides out another book, and then another, and another, until Harry’s laughing and interrupting him.

“Why are you rearranging my bookcase?” He giggles.

With an empty shelf and novels now staked on the boy’s desk, Louis stops there. He’s holding a book with hand-coloured edges when he says, “Did you colour these?”

The sun has finally ducked behind the horizon, and Harry’s face looks impossible in the low light. Dust particles are floating around him. 

“Yeah,” He begins, crossing and uncrossing his legs, “It’s like a… tradition. When I finish a book, I colour the edges. The colour represents how the book made me feel, so I don’t forget.”

Louis tries and fails to suppress his laugh. “Do you forget often?”

Harry forces away an amicable eye roll, leaning back onto his palms, “It’s just something my old English teacher used to do. She read a lot.”

Louis turns the book around in his hands. He observes its blue edges, at where the boy missed a spot and where he accidentally marked up the back cover. He wonders how many books you’d have to read to _actually_ forget how one made you feel.

“Blue,” Louis observes, “So, you felt sad?”

The boy tilts his chin upwards, eying his handiwork from across the quaint room. He pauses for a second, like he’s struggling to remember. Louis nearly laughs again, until the boy sighs deeply.

“Calm, peaceful, stable.” He says.

A moment passes.

And maybe, without having read the book in his hands, Louis feels it too.

☆

“The Who.”

“Who?”

“ _No_ ,” Louis is three seconds away from face-palming, “ _The Who_. Like, Behind Blue Eyes.”

Not a shred of recognition washed over Harry’s face.

Right.

Louis can do this.

“How about Toto? Or Foreigner? Frankie Valli?”

Harry blinks. Twice.

Maybe not. “Okay,” Louis rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, “Boston. Kansas. Chicago—”

“You’re just naming places now.”

Louis shuts his eyes in defeat, before quickly opening them again, cutting off Harry’s incessant laughter, “Journey. C’mon, everyone’s heard of Journey.”

The boy rolls onto his back as well, the darkness engulfing them once more. Their ankles knock together.

Louis takes his silence as a no. “Harry, please,” Louis is now suspiciously close to tears, and on a night that was going pretty well, Louis might add, “Just tell me you know Billy Joel. You can lie if you need to.”

Harry takes a deep breath, giggly like he’s preparing for something great, “Can’t say I know him.”

Louis inhales. “… _Queen_?”

And great it is: “Her either.” He says.

Louis cries.

And, “Nope, no, not today,” Louis sits up instantly, nearly knocking the boy off the bed as he continues to laugh into the space between them, because he _knows_ how much this is killing Louis, the _bastard_ , “God— _what_ is it with student journalists? Is UToday’s initiation a vow to only listen to 2000’s pop?” and _how_ did he and Zayn, world-renowned classic rock aficionados, find themselves involved with _2000’s poppers_?

Harry just watches Louis, as he stands in the middle of the dark dorm like he’s about to throw hands. Louis throws his hands on his hips instead.

And, “What’s wrong with Justin Timberlake?” Harry asks.

 _Nope_. “Give me your mobile. Your laptop. Something— _anything,_ right now. Consider this an intervention.”

Harry stares at Louis for a moment longer. Louis blinks. Harry flinches.

“Fine, okay,” Harry rolls onto his side, tugging a clump of sweet wrappers and crumpled notepaper from his side table. Then, he’s got what appears to be a ball of wires in his hand, extending his arm, “Here, take it.”

Louis stares at Harry for a moment longer. Then, the moonlight catches flecks of silver in between the wires, and suddenly, Louis is covering his mouth in shock.

So, it’s a bloody _conspiracy_ , “Is that…” Louis trails off, hoping that the low light is playing tricks on his eyes, “An _iPod_?”

Harry’s got on the cheekiest grin Louis has ever seen. And, has he slides the stupid device across his bed and toward Louis, wrapped in a old set of earbuds, Louis can only think of one way to get back at him:

The Power of Classic Rock. 


	7. Chapter Seven

“Louis!”

As if on cue, her voice carries across the small cafe. It reaches Louis in an instant, rushing friendly warmth over his wind-blown skin.

He meets her sweet gaze, “Cassandra!” and she grins like she’s not seen him in years, she saw him yesterday, “How’s Arch treating you this afternoon, love?”

So, it’s pretty easy to get close to someone when they’re dating your semester partner. And fueling your addiction, of course. Still, her bun bobs atop her head as she skips down the length of the counter, away from the till, a lid-less latte steady in her small hands.

“I’ve served the same woman three times since ten,” She replies once she’s come to a stop, her plum coloured lipstick catching Louis’ eye as she talks, “Other than that, no complaints.”

Louis steps up to the counter then, his eyes flicking upward to the clock on the wall, “What is it? Three…”

“It’s half three, yes.”

Louis snorts, shoving his hands into his pockets. “That’s what I call customer loyalty.”

She shakes her head, sidestepping to grab a plastic lid, “Or a caffeine addiction,” she flattens it onto the cup, before placing it on top of the pastry display case and calling out for Jamie to come get her fourth latte.

Louis watches as a young woman steps up and takes the drink, smiling softly at Cassandra. As she leaves, Louis laughs lightly, “Replace the latte with éclairs and that’s me, though. I’m that woman.”

Cassandra has busied herself with leveling straws and sugar packets, “The caffeine addict?” she wipes her hands on her apron, then looks up in amusement, “Yes, you are that woman.”

They laugh in unison, and Louis is suddenly reminded of why he came.

Cassandra is already getting to business though, “Right, can I get you something? Éclair? Tea? Donut—”

“Oh, no,” Louis’ eyes flick toward the kitchen doors, he pauses and she grins in anticipation, “I was wondering if Harry was in.” 

A moment passes.

And somehow, she grins wider.

☆

“ _Isn’t she_ …”

Louis pops his head out from behind a rack of freshly baked bread. Harry stands behind a table, putting his weight into rolling a ball of dough. He’s dressed in an apron and headband, swaying side to side slightly, carrying the tune with ease.

“… _lovely_ …”

Louis opens his mouth to greet the boy, but promptly closes it, the smell of warm dough nearly causing him to abort mission. He averts his attention to the golden loaves at his side.

“ _Isn’t she_ …”

The boy’s soft voice pulls him back. Right. Louis should be assuming the role of nuisance right now.

Louis steps into sight, and “Wonderful?” he asks, leaning am arm against the rack cheekily.

But his voice seems to pull Harry back too, as “ _Shit_ —” the boy looks up from his hands in an instant, his eyes wide with shock, stumbling backward into a tower of flour bags.

Then, it begins.

Louis’ arm falls, right as one of the flour bags does, and “Shit, oh, _fuck_ —” Louis rushes forward, his hands out in front of himself as if he has any chance of containing the mess, “ _Shit_ , it’s—turn around!”

And Harry does, he spins on his heels the second he registers Louis’ panicked words, his arms outstretched to catch the bag of flour. That’s when Louis shuts his eyes, his feet coming to a complete stop on the tile floor, waiting for the deafening thud.

It doesn’t come.

A moment passes, and then another, until the room is completely silent around them.

Louis exhales all at once, smiling incredulously, “That was almost…”

Then, Harry coughs.

Louis shuts his mouth. He pops open an eye. He sees nothing but white.

Now Louis’ coughing, waving his hands in the space between them, until the boy’s face reappears in front of him. They’re inches away from each other but clouded like they’re miles apart, the flattened flour bag snagged between Harry’s forearms.

Upside down.

Louis can only watch as Harry blinks slowly, disbelievingly, a layer of white coating his brown hair. His chest is rising and falling quickly, sending puffs of powder down toward the ground.

He swallows, and then begins to lower his head.

“Don’t,” Louis whispers, swallowing dryly, “Don’t look down.”

That’s when Louis shuts his eyes again, covering his face with his hand, waiting for the boy’s devastated gasp. It doesn’t come. Harry _laughs_ instead, really laughs, loud enough to have Louis’ eyes shooting open again. As Harry lets the empty bag fall from his hands, Louis follows it to the sea of flour at their feet, and he can’t help but cover his mouth.

There’s flour in places Louis didn’t know existed and all they can do is laugh.

“Oh my god,” Louis exhales after a moment, shaking off his shirt, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t…”

Harry tugs his headband off, “You scared the shit out of me,” he looks up through his fringe, shaking out his hair, “I didn’t even hear anyone come in.”

Louis clears his throat, “Thought I would pop by, see if you were telling the truth about being a baker,” his eyes flick to his right, to where the boy’s once beautiful mounds of dough are now coated in a thin blanket of white. Louis looks back. “I see now that you were.”

Harry exhales with a smile, shaking his head, “Yes, I definitely wasn’t—”

“Louis! _What_ did you do?”

Louis almost ends up face first in the flour. Luckily, he gripped workbench as the shock ran through his body, spinning on his heels in unison with Harry. He’s met with Cassandra and another employee, standing beside the rack of bread with their hands over their mouths.

“Cass, it’s not—” Harry panics, but “Why did you automatically assume it’s my fault?” Louis complains, throwing a hand out onto his hip.

Cassandra’s eyes are wide, “How did you…” she scans the room with a shell-shocked expression, “What did you…” before ultimately landing on the two culprits standing dead center. For a moment, Louis thinks she’s about to ban him for life, kick him out and blacklist him from all the cafes in the area, but then she’s covering her mouth again, smiling through her fingers, “I let you back here and you do _this_?”

And Louis’ back, throwing a hand up sarcastically, “Again, why all the blame Cassandra?”

Harry steps forward then, and “I knocked it over,” he explains to no one in particular, because if he doesn’t cut Louis’ banter off, no one will, “I didn’t hear him come back and he startled me.”

The employee beside Cassandra lets out a small laugh at that, rolling her eyes as she heads back to the front, “Star Baker until he gets a boy back here,” she waves her hands theatrically, _mockingly_ , “Then he’s throwing bags of flour around.”

Harry can’t seem to help the redness that rushes his cheeks, “I heard that, Deb!” he shouts at the back of her head.

She hears it too. “ _Good_!”

Louis and Cassandra laugh at the same time, Louis coughing a little more than usual.

A moment passes.

“Right, so…” Louis begins, but Cassandra is already moving, yanking open a full-length cabinet beside the back door. Sunlight floods in through a small window, catching the flour in the air as she rummages through the shelves.

Louis glances toward Harry for a second, but the boy’s shaking his head, seeming to know exactly what’s about to happen. Because then she’s spinning around, a broom in each hand and amusement in her eyes.

“Get to it, then.” She orders.

☆

_Oh, somewhere deep inside of these bones…_

There’s music flooding through the flat when Louis finally returns home—piano, to be specific, accompanied by a familiar male voice.

_An emptiness began to grow…_

“And… build, slowly build…” Another voice. Slowly, Louis slips out of his shoes and places his box of sweets on the banister.

_There's something out there…_

Louis rounds the corner into the living room, and “Softly… enunciate…” he sees his best mate whisper to an in-character Aaron, who is clutching his chest in theatrical agony. They’re on either side of Zayn’s old keyboard from first year, Aaron standing before it and Zayn sitting behind the plastic keys, his fingers producing the soft melody.

_far from my home…_

“Yes.” Zayn whispers again, and Louis stands motionless in the doorway, his bag long forgotten at his ankles, like he can’t move even if he tried. He’s entranced, watching as Aaron smiles slightly down at his piano player and opens his mouth again.

_A longing that I've never known…_

Aaron’s hands are out before him, and then over his heart, his head tilted back slightly in angst. There’s a dramatic pause, and then Zayn begins with the return to up tempo, and Aaron’s suddenly stepping around the piano grandly.

_I'm a master of fright…_

_and a demon of light…_

_And I'll scare you right—_

Then he’s locking eyes with Louis, scare hands and all, tripping over Zayn’s piano stool.

“Mr. Tomlinson!” Aaron screeches, grabbing Zayn’s shoulders for balance, and “I’m sorry, oh no, _shit_.” the keyboard makes a horrid sound, a mix of notes that should never be played all at once, as Zayn pulls his hands away.

Louis covers his mouth with his hand, watching the spectacle unfold through the slits in his fingers. He’s laughing too, not even bothering to stop the keyboard from sliding off its stand.

And Aaron’s still speaking, “Shit, Zayn—” but “ _Peterson_ , it’s okay. It’s just Louis.” Zayn stops him, readjusting his quiff as he stands up.

Louis’ still laughing when both boys finally settle, making eye contact with him across the living room. Aaron says quickly, adjusting his own fringe, which is under a cap, “Hi, Mr. Tomlinson— _Louis_. Sorry.”

“Hey, Aaron.” Louis smiles, finally catching his breath. Aaron smiles back after a beat, and Louis stares at the two boys for a moment longer, until ultimately realizing what he’s just interrupted.

Did Zayn actually…

Zayn did.

Louis shouldn’t be surprised. After all, Louis did mention Aaron’s panic attack to Zayn over breakfast last week. And Louis did text Zayn today saying he would be late.

“Stop apologizing, Peterson,” Zayn scoffs amiably, patting the nervous boy on the arm as he walks toward Louis. He hits Louis on the bum when he’s beside him, whispering, “He _is_ just like you.”

Louis’ laughing again, but maybe that’s because of how absolutely true it is.

“And you’ve got something in your hair.”

“It’s just flour.” Louis says, dragging a hand through his fringe. He thought he got all of it out on the way home.

Zayn pauses for a second, and then moves on entirely, deciding that it isn’t worth it. “Good work, Peterson, really good,” Zayn’s rounded the island, grabbed himself a muffin, and headed toward the staircase by the time he speaks again, both Aaron and Louis’ eyes already on him, “I’m always here if you need anymore help.”

Aaron looks like he might fall over. “Right, super. It would be an honour.” He calls back to a nodding Zayn, just as he disappears from the doorframe with the muffin hanging from his mouth. Louis loves him.

And, Aaron’s talking again. “ _Super_? Who says that?”

Louis turns toward him.

“He was kind enough to ask me over, and I say that?”

“Aaron.”

“Seriously? Why—”

“ _Aaron_.”

“—would I…” He stops there. His eyes snap toward Louis, like he’s finally gotten back his hearing. Panic tunnel vision, it seems. Funny, that.

Louis places his hand on the boy’s forearm. He’s shaking. “You’re absolutely fine. Don’t worry.” Louis says gently, earnestly.

Aaron looks up from his arm, and calmness seems to overcome him, maybe just a little.

Louis lets his hand fall. “Did he invite you here?”

Aaron nods. “Yeah. He found me in the cafeteria and offered to help me with my timing. I’d never seen so many heads turn. I mean, we’ve all heard _stories_ about him, but… _wow_.”

Louis blinks. “Zayn?”

Aaron blinks back. “Yeah, he’s like royalty in the music program—so cool, so talented, doesn’t care what anyone has to say about it. No regrets, y’know?”

Louis almost laughs. He’s not sure how he feels about Zayn being an infamous figure to first years. Or worse: a role model.

“I had no idea you lived together,” Aaron finishes, placing his hand on Zayn’s old keyboard, “That’s awesome. Like a dynamic duo.”

“Not sure about that.” Louis laughs, eyeing the keyboard. There is still tape over some of the plastic keys, coloured coded for some long-forgotten university project—or, the aftermath of one of their random late-night bursts of musical brilliance. (Was it really necessary to learn the chorus of Stand by Me on piano at three am? One might say no, but if they ever find themselves at an impromptu wedding… one might consider yes).

“I’m sure about it.” Aaron says, bringing Louis back to reality. When Louis looks up from the keys, Aaron is watching him closely. Maybe Louis had been smiling to himself, because fond flashes across Aaron’s face.

Louis is suddenly looking at himself. “How did it go?” He asks conversationally, because he is actually curious.

Aaron smiles absentmindedly, pulling on the strings of his hoodie, “I was surprised,” he crosses one foot over the other, “We’d been practicing for what, ten seconds, and he already knew exactly how to help me.”

Louis’ smiling, too. “That’s Zayn. Cold-hearted prick with a knack for helping others.”

Aaron seems to like that, if the sudden, high-pitched giggle that escapes his mouth has anything to say about it. “I think I’m finally getting this role down.” He says slowly, humbly, after a moment.

Louis can still hear the boy’s singing voice bouncing around his head.

He’s right.

☆

“I’m here for my iPod.”

Louis looks him up and down. Twice.

“So, what’s that?”

Harry’s eyes pause on Louis’ for a moment longer. It looks like it takes him a considerable amount of effort to look away.They both land on the white tied-off box lying in his hands.

“Oh, this,” Harry says, still and unapologetic, “This is a thank you gift.”

Louis laughs at that, _really_ laughs, he is truly set for life, “I’m gonna to need it. I’ve been living in 2008 for the past week.” Louis exhales, pushing the door open with his outstretched arm.

“Welcome back.” Harry says, his eyes flickering with amusement, and it only makes Louis want to snuggle him and never let go. He nudges his shoulder towards the living room instead.

The door clicks shut behind them, “Y’know, before yesterday, I really thought the whole baker thing was just a ploy.” Louis says, after they’ve both rounded the sofa.

The sofa cushion dips as the boy sits. “Oh, yeah? Why is that?”

Louis watches as he places the box of pastries between them. “See,” Louis whispers, tugging on the white strings of the loosely tied bow, “You’d always show up here with a box of goodies, like this, but I’d _never_ see you baking—let alone baking _for me_ , by my demand, in my kitchen.”

The box pops open, but the boy’s hands have already slammed it shut.

Louis looks up to find the boy smirking. “Wait,” He clears his throat, his dimples tugging at his skin, and Louis is suddenly reminded of the way he looked in a baker’s apron, “Am I supposed to be taking a hint here?”

If Louis weren’t in the midst of his daily piss-take right now, he’d be swooning. Maybe he is anyway. “Are you?” Louis echoes.

Harry seems to like this idea, as he lifts his hands long enough for Louis to steal a doughnut and shove it into his mouth.

He speaks after a beat.

“I’ll bake for you one day,” Harry whispers, “And you’ll love it.”

☆

“Shit, we’re doing it again.” Standing in the foyer, they’ve stopped walking and begun chatting. For the third time.

Harry stops his story about proper recycling, “Doing what?” he looks over his shoulder, coat in his hands, not even put on, “Oh, right. Yeah.”

Louis watches through a smile as the boy sidesteps into his shoes, heaving his coat over his broad shoulders. The empty take-away box is lying somewhere on the floor in the living room, the mess of powder and crumbs definitely staining the sofa cushions, as the late-night light floods in through the windows.

If it weren’t getting so late, they’d still be watching television and giggling exhaustedly into their hands.

They resume their walk toward the door, closing the last three feet of distance.

Louis leans on the doorframe, his eyes heavy. “Until next time.” He drawls.

Harry looks up from buttoning coat then, smiling slowly, “Until next time.” he echoes.

Then he’s cracking open the wooden slab, turning on his heels. He doesn’t laugh like Louis expects him to, he just stares at Louis for a moment longer, eyes ridiculously green and cheeks unbearably pink in the low light.

Louis sees where this is going. “Oi, don’t start this again—”

Then he presses his lips to Louis’.

Right.

This is not where Louis thought this was going.

And before Louis can even close his eyes, Harry’s pulling away, “See, that—oh god,” Harry blurts, covering his mouth with his hand, “I’m sorry, that was weird, I…” it’s over as soon as it began, not even a full second, but Louis’ still struggling for breath.

And Harry’s already began down the small hallway towards the lift.

Louis lunges forward, “No, wait, you can’t just…” and his hand is back on the boy before he even realizes what he’s doing.

Harry doesn’t seem too bothered, though, as he almost willingly spins around the second Louis’ hand clamps down on the fabric of his coat. It’s almost as if he were hoping Louis would panic and pull him back, so Louis would be able to _see_ the absence of regret in his eyes, and _watch_ him raise his knuckle up to his lips, biting lightly on the skin there, and— _wow_ , Louis’ grip is now much tighter than it was before, restraining Harry from hurrying away like _Louis_ now wants to, and.

This is weird.

This is _so_ weird.

When no further sound leaves Louis’ mouth, comprehensible sound that is, Harry slowly pulls his arm from Louis’ grasp. “Lou, I didn’t mean to…”

“No, that’s okay. It’s okay.” Louis interrupts, but to be honest, he’s not entirely sure if it is. Louis no longer feels the adrenaline pumping through his veins, the feeling of urgency and need that caused his hand to shoot out and grab Harry in the first place. Louis knew what to say then, how to react, but now, _now_ his mind is blank and feeble and all that seems to be remotely coherent is _stupid, stupid, stupid._

He really should have let him go.

“I, uh,” Harry begins once again, and Louis’ eyes scramble back up to his. Or maybe they never left. “I don’t…” He looks like he’s grasping for words with no purchase, or maybe he just needs space, or time to think, Louis really couldn’t be anymore clueless.

How do people do this on dates? How do people do this _at all_? Apparently, Louis needs a detailed explanation and a step-by-step tutorial because, _oh god_ , he shouldn’t be feeling like he’s about to melt.

And what’s stupid, _so_ stupid, is that maybe Louis’ been dreaming of this moment for so long. Maybe for as long as he’s shut down every person who’s asked about it, he’s also been calculating every smile and nod and laugh and _bloody hell_ —why is it that after it’s finally happened, after Harry’s lips finally have touched his, he can’t even _speak_?

Harry’s eyes flick down towards his boots and Louis can’t seem to do anything other than bring his index and middle finger up to his lips. They’re on fire.

“I’m should go—” Harry begins again but, “ _No_ ,” Louis urges, pausing involuntarily when Harry’s breath catches, “I mean, you can’t leave. Not now,” Louis hates how his voice wavers, but the boy doesn’t seem to notice. He just stares at Louis with the biggest eyes Louis thinks he’s ever seen, quiet and waiting for him to finish, and Louis doesn’t even notice he’s speaking again until the words leave his mouth, it hits him, “Not _yet_ , anyway. Your iPod, it’s still in the living room.”

Harry’s features fall. Louis suddenly feels a lot colder. It’s not even the gust of late November wind that ruffles up the boy’s hair.

“No, right, yeah,” Harry quickly recovers like the polite boy he is, “I’ll be right back.”

Louis opens his mouth to backpedal, but Harry’s already passed him and disappeared into the flat. Louis stands still for a moment. But then a moment turns into many moments, into what feels like minutes, like hours, and _dammit_ —Louis forces himself to march back into the warmth of his foyer, shutting the door behind himself quietly.

The room looks stiller and flatter than it looked minutes ago, and as Louis looks around, hearing the subtle movement of the boy in the living room, his eyelids suddenly feel a lot lighter.

Right.

He can do this.

Louis appears in the living room and his feet kind of just stop moving entirely.

He can’t do this.

Harry’s body is turned away from him, his finger swiping mindlessly up and down the glossy screen of his iPod, and Louis is suddenly thankful that Harry hasn’t noticed him yet. Louis’ expression is a hundred percent dumbfounded and a thousand percent unattractive.

How is he _supposed_ to react? Harry is standing in a way that only makes his back look _wider_ , the yellow light of the lamp hitting his shoulders and pouring into the darkness of his waist. Even his hair is gleaming, the lighter strands catching the light and reflecting it back into Louis’ eyes. As Louis moves closer, he can see every muscle and curve and dimple in the boy’s skin, leaving just about nothing to his imagination. He’s golden, steady and radiant, and Louis has absolutely, _positively_ lost his mind.

“So, I just wanted to…” Louis says dumbly and he takes a large step forward. He even stomps his feet a little as if he had just got in, because he’s clever and resourceful and it would probably be better if Harry didn’t know how long he had just been ogling his back.

Harry doesn’t respond at all. Like, not even a dismissive wave of his hand. That honestly confuses Louis, considering last time he checked, Harry was fully capable of hearing.

So, he’s ignoring him?

Louis is three seconds away from pitching a pillow at his head for being such a prick when Harry’s body turns slightly, and Louis spots the thin wires dangling from his ears. That might just be why Harry hadn’t noticed him.

_Earbuds._

Louis clears his throat at that, reassessing the situation in time with Harry’s swaying hips. He’s no longer bothered or frustrated—he’s _offended_ , because this means that somewhere during the short trip to Louis’ room and the easy task retrieving of his iPod, Harry had still gotten distracted. So the boy’s absentminded and oblivious, but bloody gorgeous, all off beat and awkward in the dim lighting.

Louis can actually feel his heart swell.

And Louis must’ve made a noise, or maybe Harry had begun to feel him staring, because Harry spins around not even a second later. Harry immediately startles, as he does, throwing a hand over his mouth.

Louis almost laughs, if he weren’t so out of breath, “Shit, I’m sorry,” he closes the distance between himself and the boy, “I didn’t mean to—”

“You made me a playlist?” Harry practically yells, cutting Louis off and not even bothering to take the earbuds out of his ears.

Louis’ eyes instantly fall to the soft curve of his lips and the indents of his dimples. Louis can’t breathe, _bloody hell_ , there is air all around him and he physically cannot get enough.

“It’s not really a playlist.” Louis shrugs, trying desperately to keep his voice steady. Except, it sort of is.

It had been very late, three o’clock in the morning at least, and Louis had been scrolling through Harry’s never-ending music library for the past four hours. His eyes were burning, his fingers cramped, but he refused to sleep until he was finished. 

See, Louis was beginning to consider his work a favor to society, charity work, the _Lord’s work_ , if you will, because _oh god_ —anyone who has a music library that consists of strickly 2000’s pop and tasteless techno-thumping must be socially inept. Not to mention the boy’s appalling unfamiliarly with Freddie Mercury (Peace Be Upon Him).

So, things had been going well. A little _delete_ here, and little _wiping of Harry’s entire music library_ there. But all good things must come to an end, as they say, and that end just so happened to be a soft ballad that stopped Louis dead in his tracks.

It had been part of a classic rock playlist that he found on the web, one he had carelessly thrown it on to fill the silence while he combed through his digital heaven, but now, Louis was _speechless_.

Because, (and it might have been the sleep deprivation taking charge here), Louis _felt_ it, heard Harry’s name in every word, and by the chorus kicked in, he was gasping for air. It was so beautiful, harmonious and captivating, but full of life all the same, and he immediately created the first playlist on Harry’s iPod for that one song alone. And well, it had just sort of, _uncontrollably_ _snowballed into oblivion_ from there.

Four hours later, Zayn had gotten up for his morning class and practically screamed at the sight. Louis still isn’t sure what was so horrifying about saving a young life, but even while Zayn shook his shoulders and yelled at him for staying up all night, Louis couldn’t help but laugh. He had just composed a playlist that might just be better than life itself _._

“Just threw some songs together that I thought you’d like.” Louis finishes.

Harry’s eyes widen like Louis has just introduced him to the biggest advancement in his life to date, and his hand visibly clenches around his iPod. Which.

“It’s… Lou, it’s good. It’s _so_ good _._ God, you weren’t kidding, _how_ do you even find these­—”

Louis presses his lips to Harry’s stupid perfect mouth before he can ramble any further.

And then the whole room just.

_Spins._

Harry’s body reacts gorgeously, gripping Louis’s shoulders, the iPod dropping to the floor beside their feet next. Louis’ breath actually catches in his throat, the earbuds ripping clear out of Harry’s ears, but neither of them seem to care. Every nerve in Louis’ body is white-hot and electrified and _Harry, Harry, Harry._

Only when his lungs begin to burn does Louis pull away, and even then he’s shivering at the loss. Louis presses their foreheads together instantly, noses less than an inch apart. Harry’s breaths are cold and fast on Louis’ wet lips, sending shivers down his spine and goose bumps across his neck, but Louis hasn’t even opened his eyes yet.

Harry knots his hands together at the base of Louis’ spine. This brings their torsos together, impossibly close and unbearably intense, but he’s not forceful about it, and that confuses Louis.

Harry’s touch is barely there, ghosting over the material of his shirt in a way that feels too gentle for words, and for a moment Louis wonders if Harry can feel how fast his heart is beating against his chest.

“Lou,” He whispers, and he clears his throat before adding, “I’m...”

Louis opens his eyes the second he hears his voice. He almost faints on the spot. If Louis thought Harry looked good before—he looks _incredible_ now. Louis hasn’t even touched the boy’s hair and it looks more unruly than before, tussled across his forehead in a way that only makes him look younger. His cheeks are flushed with flecks of red and his lips are slightly swollen, working perfectly with his glossy eyes, deep and round and full.

“Is this okay?” Louis breathes against his lips. He doesn’t even say it like a question, but then Harry unlaces his hands and Louis is actually disappointed. That lasts for a whole two seconds before they find themselves on Louis’ cheeks and the room seems to spin again.

“So okay.” He nods quickly, trying to inch his way closer to Louis’ face. It might just be impossible.

Louis shifts his shoulders to look the boy in the eyes again, his lips forming a smile.

Harry’s dopy smile is the last thing Louis sees before he presses their lips together once more. This time, Harry’s barely moving, just smoothing his lips against Louis’. It’s like he’s waiting for permission to do anything other than stand still, but at the same time, contented with never getting it _._

So Louis flattens his hands on Harry’s chest and pushes back, using Harry’s shoulders as a guide until they sprawl themselves out on the sofa. Harry slides off his coat, tossing it onto the ground beside Louis’ feet. It’s clumsy and uncoordinated and positively horrid but it’s _them_ and Louis’ sure he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Louis brackets the boy’s thighs with his knees, and Harry really begins kissing him then, Louis’ hips rolling forward into the boy’s lap instinctively.

“Lou,” Harry breathes, “Lou…”

“Yeah,” With hands clutching and foreheads bumping, Louis’ attention is drawn to how easily his hands are being dwarfed by the boy’s chest, and how he can feel the warmth of Harry’s skin through the thin material of his shirt. He kind of wants to faint. “Yeah, Haz.”

But miraculously, no matter how lost Louis’ mind gets, they continue moving.

Louis’ hips roll in messy figure eights over the rough material of Harry’s jeans, feeling his body get lighter under the boy’s touch. Soon enough, there are hands on the side of Louis’ thighs, wrapping around them and squeezing, palms so hot they burn. 

To distract himself from the heat, Louis hikes himself further up Harry’s body, throwing his arms over Harry’s shoulders. He tries and fails to grab a hold of Harry’s neck, opting to lace his fingers through the back of his hair instead.

He pulls and Harry tilts his head back, moaning into his mouth. Louis moves with him. Louis can’t believe this is happening, he feels hot all over.

Harry’s hands slide off his thighs and Louis actually shivers at the loss—that, until one of his hand finds the small of Louis’ back, bringing their chests together again, and the other splays itself across the swell of his bum.

Louis might’ve gasped. He might’ve blacked out too, because as each rotation passes, Louis feels less and less in touch with his surroundings and more and more lost in Harry. Maybe they’ve developed some sort of rhythm. Maybe _this_ is how people do it.

Louis’ epiphany comes to a screeching halt the minute Harry’s hands drop from him and he begins to _giggle_.

“Lou,” He gasps, like it’s the only word he can manage, and his knees slide up slightly. Louis trails kisses down the side of his face in response, sucking lightly where Harry’s jaw meets his neck. Harry only laughs harder, “Lou, I don’t know what I’m doing…” he sounds like he’s drunk, his voice _at_ _least_ two octaves lower, and that’s all it takes for Louis to crack.

Louis deflates immediately, surrendering to a fit of laughter as he tucks his face into Harry’s neck, because the truth is, Louis doesn’t know what he’s doing either.

He can barely even hear Harry’s voice over the roar of blood in his ears, “You’re so… I feel so hot.”

Maybe they’re actually the same person. “Do you…” Louis exhales lightly, trying to catch his breath against the boy’s neck, “Do you want to just lie down?”

Harry’s hands return to Louis’ back then, sliding up the length of his spine. Louis relishes in the touch, feeling the boy’s chest shake with laughter, before he shuts his eyes.

Louis’ nearly asleep when the boy slides onto his side, allowing Louis to cradle into him, with one leg thrown over the boy’s hip. Harry’s body is warm and solid and easy, and Louis has never felt surer of anything in his entire life.

They’re both completely lost, and still, Louis is sure.

“I can feel your heartbeat.” Harry murmurs into his skin. Louis can feel his smile.

Louis almost laughs. “It’s slowing down, I swear.”

Harry pauses like he’s about to say something. He decides against it. They lie like that for what seems like forever, ages pass and not a word is spoken between them. Louis watches the moon through the blinds, hearing the city below finally begin to settle.

Much later, the boy speaks again.

“Thank you,” is what he goes with, when darkness has taken over the living room and the only thing keeping Louis from drifting off to sleep is the boy’s steady heartbeat against his cheek, “You’re really good with that music stuff.”

Louis smiles at that, dazed and blissful, and uses his thumb to trace nonsensical circles on his collarbones.

“You’re welcome.” He says.

Harry tightens his arms around Louis’ waist and giggles breathlessly, their bodies reaching a closeness that’ll never quite feel close enough, as _for H_ silently shuffles to the next song from somewhere on the floor.

Louis’ glad he didn’t let him go.

☆

Louis’ barely strung his bag over his chair before the door is thrust open so hard it is propelled into the wall.

Well. It’d been a good run, hadn’t it?

Louis is halfway through his final goodbyes when he sees who has just burst through the lecture room door so hastily, and to be disappointed would be an understatement.

Niall is standing in the doorway, his chest heaving, his eyes scanning across the entirety of the small room, as the rest of their classmates irritably resume their conversations. Then, he locks eyes with Louis.

“Louis Tomlinson, I swear to god,” He’s actually shouting from the doorway and Louis almost laughs until, to Louis’ unsuspecting horror, Niall begins to charge across the floor, chucking his backpack onto the tabletop, “What the _fuck_ did you do to him?”

The panic in his eyes is a lot clearer up close. “To who? _Shut up_.” Louis can feel the embarrassment flooding his chest as his classmates begin to stare, but “I can’t believe you!” Niall shouts again, seeming to be immune. Or just shameless.

Louis’ mind runs over the last twenty-four hours, and _no_ —nowhere did he kill anyone, so this is all highly uncalled for, “Can’t believe what?” he breathes.

“You know.”

“I really don’t.”

“Don’t play dumb with me.”

“I’m not playing anything, Niall.”

“Oh, you boys!” Niall shouts again, slamming his hand down on the table as more heads turn toward them, “I can’t believe, after two and a half months of classmate-ship, you would do this without telling me.”

“What are you—”

“You guys _did it_!”

The room silences around them. A girl two tables over clutches her heart. Louis swears he can hear intensifying sound effects.

So, his life has officially become a soap opera. And his face has drained of all colour, “He told you that?” Louis whispers, almost worriedly, and a light seems to be lit in Niall’s eyes.

“He didn’t, actually,” Niall recalls, and Louis actually facepalms, “But oh my god, you _did_ —”

“Shhhh!” Louis is whisper-yelling, nearly covering the blond’s mouth with his hands, “ _Fuck_ , Niall, everyone is looking—”

Something like remorse flashes across his eyes, “Oh shit, I’m sorry,” he covers his mouth for a second, before absolutely yelling again, “No, wait, I’m not. You didn’t even _tell_ me, you _arsehole—_ ”

“Stop—”

“Does the brocode mean anything to you? I am the captain of this ship—”

“We didn’t _do it_ , idiot!” Louis cuts in.

“—and I expect complete…” He stops himself there. The girl two tables over gasps into her lecture notes. A moment passes.

And, “You didn’t?” Niall says, his voice returning to a normal volume.

Louis’ ears are ringing. “No, we didn’t.” He pulls out a chair and sits down, shoving Niall’s backpack down the tabletop.

“Well, shit.” Niall exhales, repeating his actions. He doesn’t even classily address the crowd like he usually does. Instead, he leaves them in the strange aftermath of their outburst, opting to rest his chin in his palm, deep in thought.

Louis rolls his eyes into oblivion. This is whom he chooses to associate himself with.

Louis is laughing before he even realizes he is, and Niall finally explains himself. “Harry came barging into my dorm when he got in last night, he could barely even speak he was so giddy,” He retells, shaking his head in disbelief, “I thought for sure this was it.”

“We just laid on the sofa.” Louis half-admits, covering his mouth with his hand, as a rush of skin and heat clouds his vision.

Niall doesn’t seem to notice the clouds. “Well, if we’ve learned anything from this,” He says nonchalantly, as Professor Miller makes her way through the door. She greets the class before smiling widely at the two boys, who she always seems to notice first in a sea of faces, “It’s that you two absolutely cannot do it. He wouldn’t survive it.”

“Duly noted.” Louis scoffs into the sleeve of his jumper, in time with Niall’s laughter. They both exhale in unison. Setting up their textbooks and notebooks, Louis catches the blond shake his head gleefully in his peripheral.

This is Louis’ life.

He wouldn’t have it any other way.


	8. Chapter Eight

By the time November comes to a close, Louis is waking up at midnight naturally, seconds before the chime of his mobile.

He’s hauling on far too many layers to count, shutting the flat door quietly behind himself before bounding toward the lift and into the street, the moonlight reflecting off of the frosted pavement below his shoes. The wind bites at his skin, his breath falls from his mouth in white billows, his lungs burn with exhaustion, but he never minds, he _couldn’t_ mind, because Harry’s waiting for him at the pitch.

Then it’s on—shoes to the grass, wits out the window, shouting windswept banter back and forth across the field as the football does the same, until they’re sprawled out on the grass under the hazy moonlight, having fun like they haven’t known each other for only two months. Louis may not know what home is, but he might’ve found the closest thing to it.

And even during the pangs of strangeness Louis feels when he thinks about what he’s doing, _really_ thinks about it—how he’s completely comfortable around someone that he hasn’t known as long as Zayn, or someone who _isn’t_ Zayn—Louis wouldn’t want it any other way.

(Minus the occasional night where Louis wakes an annoyed and exhausted Zayn whilst entering the flat at four in the morning, for which Louis can’t even _try_ to be apologetic because his mind is just so full of _Harry_ , _Harry_ , _Harry_ ).

☆

The temperature in the flat has dropped at least ten degrees in the past two hours. Or, at least, that’s what Louis is claiming.

Because there is _no way_ that his teeth should be chattering like this, his skin goosebumped and his hair raised, as he darts back into the living room from the toilet.

“Did you make it?” Harry calls out, one arm strew over the back of the sofa, his attention locked on some late-night sitcom rerun, “Because, for a minute there…”

Louis narrowly avoids the coffee table as he practically leaps back under the blanket, latching to the boy’s side as the heat floods back into his veins, “Of course I made it.” he chatters, but honestly, there’s nothing obvious about it. He wouldn’t have if the boy hadn’t shoved him off the sofa and ordered he go to the toilet. Louis was beginning to _vibrate_.

Nevertheless, “Lou, you’re freezing,” Harry murmurs, finally tearing his eyes away from the television as he shimmies closer to Louis, “You’ve got on like a million layers… what’s wrong with you?”

Louis shoves his icy toes under the boy’s thighs and he doesn’t even react, “Cold blooded.” Louis admits, before tucking his face into the boy’s neck. Luckily, Harry doesn’t mind physical contact. Luckier, Harry’s body radiates heat like a furnace.

Harry shifts his hips then, taking Louis’ hands in his own. He rubs them back and forth, and then presses them to his chest. Louis can feel the heat under his palms.

“Why are you so _warm_? What’s wrong with _you_?” Louis mocks, shutting his eyes as he exhales. His hands shake when the boy laughs, and when his hands are freed, Louis almost cries.

Until, “Come here.” Harry whispers.

Louis’ eyes pop open, looking at him skeptically, “What?” he asks.

The boy laughs again, sending shockwaves down Louis’ spine. Then, without comment, the boy begins to lie down, the movement bringing Louis down with him. Louis ends up lying in front of the boy this time, his back presses to the boy’s chest, the boy’s arms wrapped around him.

Louis clicks the television off. Moonlight takes over. The room silences around them.

A moment passes.

Harry’s arms shift with the rise and fall of Louis’ chest. Louis inhales. Harry exhales. Louis exhales. Harry inhales.

Another moment passes.

Louis inhales. Harry exhales, Louis exhales—or is it inhales? Who’s turn is it? Do they have turns? Is he keeping Harry awake by moving his arms? _Shit_ , now Louis isn’t breathing _at all_ and he’s about to inhale _very_ sharply—

“Lou?”

Louis inhales all at once.

And, “What’s going on?” Harry whispers through a laugh.

Louis rolls onto his back then, tucking his face into the crook of his elbow, “God, I hate cuddling like that. All I can think about is _breathing_ and where my body is touching yours.”

Harry lays his arm on Louis chest. His eyes are shut when he smiles. “We don’t have to spoon, we can lay like this.”

“Even the _word_ …” Louis cuts himself off, turning his head into Harry’s neck, “I think I’m the only person in the world who hates spooning.”

A moment passes.

“You think so?” Harry asks.

They inch even closer together, and Louis budges up to kiss his chin.

“Probably.” Louis whispers back, once he’s pulled away.

The boy hums in thought. “Luckily,” He readjusts the blanket on Louis’ shoulders, engulfing him in even more heat, “I don’t mind.”

☆

Maybe Louis really is cold blooded.

Because, as he makes the trek from the campus back to his flat, Louis is _sure_ the early December air is dropping in degree each second.

Never mind the happy elves painted on every available pane of glass, the twinkle lights twisted up in every barren shrub, the Christmas carols blasting out of every campus cafe and passerby’s earbuds—Louis thinks, maybe, _t’isn’t_ the season to be jolly.

He feels like he wants to commit murder.

Until, “Why, hello!” a familiar calls from across the walkway, and suddenly, Louis feels a little less homicidal, “What are you up to this fine morning?”

Louis locks eyes with the boy instantly, as he stands beside Crane Hall East’s bricked wall.

“Just got out of Miller’s!” Louis calls back, hitching his bag farther up his shoulder. He finally crosses the stoned path.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, how about we—” It’s then that Louis sees it.

A parade, a lightshow, a chorus of singing children—anything, literally _anything_ , would have been less ridiculous than what Louis sees. Instead, it’s Harry, with a thick scarf around his neck and a _handwritten_ _poster_ in his gloved hands, breaking out the tiptoes to reach up and plaster one of his posters to the brick.

“What the hell are you doing?” Louis gawks.

Harry’s got stupid little rolls of tape along his sleeve when he says, “Oh, this?” before promptly spinning on his heels, carefully sliding a hand into his tie-dye tote bag. He fishes out a poster and hands it to Louis. “Have a look.”

Louis reaches for the cardstock sheet, but he doesn’t take it entirely. Instead, Louis glares at Harry for a moment extra, the sheet suspended between the both of them, until the boy begins to smirk again.

Louis has never been more smitten in his entire life.

With a loud sigh, Louis takes the poster and Harry returns to plastering propaganda on campus property. Louis begins to read aloud. _“_ Hello, Bonjour, Hola, Hallo, Ciao, Olá, Nín hǎo, Kon'nichiwa, Hujambo…” Louis stops there. “ _Hujambo_? Really? What is that—”

“Swahili?” Harry interjects, and _no,_ Swahili would be the last thing on Louis’ list—dammit, it isn’t even _on_ the list. Harry’s got another two posters under his belt and the third dangling his hands before smiling. “Because yeah, it is.”

Louis rolls his eyes into oblivion. _“_ Salve, Hej… Merhaba _…_ ”

“Actually, it’s pronounced _Ma_ —”

“If you _actually_ think I’m gonna learn the proper pronunciation of one hundred and five new languages before lunch you’ve officially gone mad.”

A moment passes.

Like a housewife scolding her teenage son, Harry slowly turns his torso around, hands on his hips and all. He stares at Louis like he’s expecting an apology, and oddly enough, Louis feels like he’s looking at Harry the same way.

Harry opts to yank a tape roll off his sleeve in disgust, turning back to the already poster-filled wall, “Excuse me for I’m trying my best not to leave anyone out.”

Louis might actually apologize if he didn’t just catch the _widest_ of shit-eating grins tug at the corners of the boy’s lips. Two can play at that game. 

“You poor, little, considerate baby,” Louis coos, skipping the remaining thirty-four obviously-Google-translated and possibly offensive hello’s. He’s about to tear this poster apart. Figuratively, of course.

Louis continues reading. “…fellow campus pupils! My pal hates spooning, but I like him too much to abandon him. So, I am arranging a Spooning Soiree, if you will, in the hopes of finding a new spooning partner. Come on down to the lawn aside Crane Hall East next Sunday at noon for your chance to spoon,” Louis skips over the line of smiley faces and polka dots, “Fee to enter: two quid and a smile. (All proceeds to be donated to the GSA).”

Louis is five seconds away from screaming.

But before he can, “What d’you think?” Louis’ eyes flick up towards a red-cheeked, bright-eyed Harry, who’s now standing prettily before his posters like he’s just finished a show-and-tell.

Louis screams. “You’re…” He starts, jaw hanging open, “I’m sorry, you’re organizing a _charitable_ _spooning event_ in the search of a _spooning partner_?” 

Shoving his extra posters back in his crafty hippy tote bag like this isn’t the oddest thing ever, he says, “I’m not actually searching, just trying to raise some money for a good cause. You said it yourself—everyone likes spooning.”

Louis is at an actual loss for words. He’s just read forty-six different languages and _nope_ , not one.

But don’t worry—Harry’s got many. “So, I’ve already got permission from the dean and from the GSA, and I’m probably just going to recruit some people from my Challenge and Change course to help out,” Louis merely watches as the boy begins to cross the courtyard. “Because, I mean, it’ll be pretty challenging and we _will_ be collecting change.”

Still no words.

The boy continues. “I brought it up to the board at the GSA meeting last weekend,” Louis stands alone, gawking, until he begins to lose the boy’s voice to the wind. Then, he jogs up to his side because, well, might as well let him finish. “We’ll be planning it on Saturday. Maybe I can get a few of them to come out too.”

Louis grabs the boy’s arm solemnly, causing the boy to meet his gaze. A wave of curiosity flashes across the greens and yellows, before, “Harry, they should come out when they’re ready.” Louis whispers.

 _And_ , Louis’ back.

“Oh my _god_ , _”_ Harry buries his face in his gloved hands, a puff of frozen breath breaking between them, “You know what I meant.”

And Louis does, but it doesn’t mean he shouldn’t laugh loudly into the brisk December air. Until everything Harry’s just said finally clicks.

_Spooning Soiree. Guilt-tripping classmates. GSA. Saturday._

Questionable charitable ventures aside, not to mention calling the fundraiser a _soiree_ when it’s taking place at noon, since when does this university have a GSA? Louis swears he has been attending classes for the last year and a half—well, for the most part—but he also swears he has never heard the words GSA. That he is sure of, because maybe he would’ve attended.

But now he’s learning that the wind-burned boy before him has been a part of this club, has a voice in this club, and has been inspired to _donate_ to this club, and wow. Louis feels quite like a proud mother now.

Even if it is the _oddest_ _thing ever_.

“I, uh,” Louis begins walking again, a warm feeling rushing through his bones when he hears the boy’s boots on the concrete behind him. “I didn’t know you were in the GSA.”

The boy makes an appearance in Louis’ peripheral. Kicking a rock off the path as he clears his throat, “I wasn’t out my first year of uni. But I was, like, finally questioning and absolutely terrified. I’d look at guys—like my mates, classmates, guys passing me by—and find them attractive, but no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t picture myself falling in love with a guy. I reckoned I was merely appreciating beauty in general. I didn’t even really know the difference.”

Louis nodes silently. This time, Louis doesn’t mind that the boy continues.

“I went to the fresher’s fair with my mates at the time, and while they were signing board after board for varsity sports and clubs with names I couldn’t even pronounce, I couldn’t stop staring at the Gay Straight Alliance table. I wanted to get a closer look, but I was too scared to even walk over.” Harry pauses, only to let out a laugh.

It’s a laugh that has his eyes rolling back, an _how silly of me_ kind of laugh, and Louis would be lying if he said his heart didn’t grow four times fonder. Louis has never even thought of a world where Harry isn’t the one before him; yet somehow, he finds himself sad to have not known _that_ Harry.

The boy readjusts his scarf. “So, I repeated the meeting details over and over in my head until I remembered them, and then showed up to the first meeting ten minutes late. Really, I didn’t think they’d let me join, having been late _and_ not signed up at all, but they treated me like I’d been there for years. All the colour and smiles and confidence—they knew who they were, that’s for sure. And after enough meetings, I did too.”

He begins to smile unbeknownst to himself, “What I started to feel, in every ounce of my being while watching couple after couple flood through GSA, holding each other, listening to each other, _loving_ each other—it was instant validation. I couldn’t picture myself falling in love with a guy because I didn’t know what it looked like. But I can picture it now.” And if he didn’t before, Louis now understands why Harry is an English major.

The boy takes a finishing stride towards one of the decorated benches on the perimeter of the wide courtyard. It creaks unhappily when he sits, the chipping paint falling to the cobblestone like confetti. He waves Louis over with a dorky smile.

Louis complies immediately.

“Long uncalled-for story short, no matter how many speeches I give or volunteer work I do, I still feel like I owe them.”

Taking a seat beside Harry on the frigid rod iron, Louis shakes his head and says, “I’d give yourself some credit too. Most people would have put on the blinders right away, but you trusted yourself enough to attend a meeting.” 

Harry lowers his chin into his reddening hand, after having tucked his tote bag behind his bare ankles. “Without the alliance I wouldn’t have you.” He states, matter-of-factly.

Which. It’s not a matter, nor a fact. “How so?” Louis asks.

His eyes flick up towards Louis’ gaze and then back down, bridging the gap between Louis’ eyes and lips. “I mean if I hadn’t learnt how _normal_ this is,” Harry gestures between their shivering chests vaguely, and Louis’ eyes follow his hands, “I wouldn’t have ever been this way with you. Comfortable, vulnerable, _genuine_. I owe them for giving me the courage to accept myself.”

Louis takes his bottom lip between his teeth. He nods solemnly. “You love who you love, that’s it. Doesn’t matter what way,” Louis muses, and then watches as Harry shows him a sideways glance, “And since GSA allowed you to accept that, I guess I owe them too.”

Harry’s body seems to gravitate towards Louis. “Hmm,” Harry muses, his teeth stark white behind his dark, pink lips, “So, it’s a win-win,” and then, in a rush, begins to sway from side to side, hands swaying about as well, “Boys and girls can love, girls and girls can love, boys and boys can love,” their knees but together on the frigid rod iron, “ _Humans_ can love. Wow,” he clutches his chest in earnest, “I love love, Lou.”

Louis looks up from their knees. “Such an idiot.” He titters, and soon enough, Harry’s face is barely inch away. His eyes are bright and his breaths feel like heaven on Louis’ frostbitten nose, ghosting over his skin in a way that has Louis’ spine tingling.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Louis can hear the entire world cheering for them.

Then, “Please come with me this Saturday.” he says.

Louis is taken aback. It isn’t confusion that’s caused it, not the lack of context, the sudden change of mood—he knows exactly what Harry’s asking. And maybe that’s just it, the fact that he’s even asking at all.

“You’d want that?” Louis asks.

Harry’s face becomes impossibly closer. Louis’ not sure who’s fault it is.

“More than anything.” Harry whispers.

It’s both.

A moment passes.

Harry’s the first to pull away.

And, “It’s strange,” Louis starts again, swallowing sharply as the world around him resumes, “I’ve been here for a year and a half and I’ve never even heard about a GSA meeting.”

A flash of excitement crosses Harry’s eyes, “Well, Louis Tomlinson, I would be honoured to be your first.” he’s smiling so wide Louis’ cheeks hurt for him, the cheeky bastard, and when his outstretched hand is thrust Louis’ way, it does nothing to suppress it.

Louis takes his hand. And rolls his eyes. “Again, such a idiot.”

Harry tosses his bag strap over his shoulder and his arm over Louis’, beginning down the walkway, “That _,_ the GSA didn’t help me with.”

☆

Three full days have passed, and Louis’ nearly falling down the stairs on Saturday morning.

“Okay, picture this. You’re gay—”

“Done.”

“—and you’re...” Louis stops himself there. He’s standing towel-clad in the doorway of the living room with one shirt suspended in each hand, a million pairs trousers and socks tossed over his shoulders, and two different pairs of shoes on his feet.

He lets his hands drop hopelessly. “ _No_ , okay, listen to me. This is a crisis.”

Zayn doesn’t even pause his game. Crisis ignored _._

“ _Zayn_?”

“What?”

“I asked for help.”

“What I am supposed to do?” He’s nearing the end of his third lap about a toy factory, just barely leading a small turtle for first place. It seems to be a real struggle, if the sweat on Zayn’s forehead and the whitening of his knuckles says anything.

Louis would throw a shoe at him if his body wasn’t currently sporting his entire closet. Plus, he’d like to consider all of his options.

“ _Listen to me_ , for one,” Louis reiterates, “There’s a crisis.”

“You said that already—” An eruption of high-pitched cheers cuts him off. Sadly, most of which are coming from Zayn himself. “ _Yes_! Shit, oh my— _yes_!” The screen is flashing every sort of colour imaginable; confetti, roses, and gold number ones have permanently seared Louis’ vision. Zayn spikes his controller at the sofa. The music is unbearable. “Shove it! Winner!”

“Oi, best mate, I need you over here.”

Zayn finally turns back. Wiping his face with his sleeve, he slides off the coffee table and switches off the game console. He makes it two strides before stopping in his tracks.

“Shit,” He sizes Louis up, “Yeah, whatever _here_ is, I want no part of it.”

“ _Zayn_ ,” Louis all but whines, bouncing impatiently in place, as a shirt slips off the hanger. It tumbles to the hardwood as the first of many, the rest of Louis’ clothing freefalling from him like they’ve bloody gotten the memo and are giving up too, “Oh, for god’s sake _—_ ”

“I’m gay.” Zayn says, lunging forward to stop the remaining articles from abandoning ship. He’s picked up all the clothing and laid them onto the sofa in the time it takes for Louis to process his words.

Louis blinks. “I know?” He adjusts the towel on his waist forlornly. “Me too?”

“I’m picturing it.”

Louis blinks again.

Zayn slaps his hand over his eyes. “Oh my _god_ —I’m talking about your stupid scenario. I’m gay and I’m…?” 

_Oh_. “Oh,” Louis runs a hand through his damp hair, “So you’re gay and you’ve been asked to attend a GSA meeting by another gay man, during which you will be meeting said gay man’s straight and LGBTQ plus friends whom you neglected to meet for over a _year_ because you were too lazy to ask if GSA was a thing. What should you wear?” 

Zayn blinks. He takes a quick look at Louis’ mismatched shoes. “That’s a pretty complex character, can I have a few days to look over the script?”

Louis throws a shoe at him.

Zayn swats it away in a panic. “Okay! Okay, but why’re you so worked up about this? It’s not like yous haven’t hung out before.”

“Because, it’s…” Louis sidesteps over to the sofa, taking a seat on top of his closet. It’s… well. It’s, _what_? Zayn’s got a point. Why is this any different than hanging out at the theatre? Or, going out to play footie at one am? Getting food from Arch, watching _The Shining_ on Halloween, or making out and then… lying down?

It’s not. If anything, attending a help organization’s meeting in order to discuss a fundraiser should be child’s play.

Like the good mate he is, Zayn takes Louis silence as permission to drop it. “Let me have a think about this.” He says, instead.

Neither of them can help the pity smiles that come their way as they sit on top of Louis’ clothes in quiet. Zayn rolls the aglet of his shoe between his fingers. Louis pulls at the loose strings of his towel.

“Okay.” Zayn begins eventually, turning his torso to face Louis’, “How am I arriving?”

“Walking. The meeting’s in the building across East.”

“What time’s the meeting?”

“Today at two. Meeting Harry at his dorm at one-thirty.”

“How many people?”

“Maybe thirty?”

“Will I be speaking?”

“I would hope so.” Louis snorts.

Zayn hits Louis with the aglet. He deserves it.

“Will I be _public_ speaking?” Zayn clarifies.

“Don’t think so.”

“How many friends does said gay man have?”

“Three—main ones, anyway.”

“What are they called?”

“Amy, Jack, and Luciana. He’s really close with Amy, though.”

“Do I know what they do?”

“Amy is the president; Jack is the funds advisor; and Luci is one of the event coordinators.”

“Sexualities?”

“Lesbian, straight, and lesbian-ish.”

“So, bi?”

“No, lesbian-ish.”

“Sure. Do I care about ever returning?”

“Yes.”

A moment passes.

Zayn jumps to his feet. “Go with the usual. Polo, chinos, and Vans.” He says decidedly, scooping up the sky blue polo shirt he was previously sitting on and chucking it at Louis’ chest.

Louis looks up from the soft fabric incredulously, “But you hate my usual. It’s a no-no.” he echoes.

The boy’s already raided the fridge for chocolate milk, “I hate _you_ , too. But,” he’s holding the carton up to his mouth, he shrugs, “Harry doesn’t. Harry likes your usual. Don’t try to be anyone else. Be you.”

Louis blinks. “I haven’t slept in two days and this is what I get?” He stands to his feet in an exasperated huff, bear hugging all the articles of clothing. It’s messy and uncoordinated and he’s definitely dropped at least a third of his various sock selections—never mind his slipping towel—but he absolutely cannot be bothered.

He’s just asked the most stylish man in all of England for fashion advice and gotten nothing in return but a Tumblr quote and the chore of buying more chocolate milk.

Louis’ got one foot on the stairs when the boy pips up again, tossing the empty carton into the recycling bin, “Hey, Tommo?”

“Yeah?”

A pair of socks hits Louis’ back.

“Have fun at the meeting.” He says.

☆

“…just invited another gay man to a meeting that you’re super proud of but super nervous about, and if that isn’t bad enough, you—”

“Woah, _woah_ , bro. Slow the fuck down.”

“Why?” His head is actually going to explode. He can see it now—Harry Styles, English Lit major, student journalist, and aspiring philanthropist, dies in front of his best mate in his quaint (yet homey) dorm room. Cause of death: gay anxiety and all things Tomlinson. “Am I speaking too fast? Want me to start again? It’s quite a bit, maybe you could take notes…”

Niall’s hands are on his shoulders. He squeezes. “Take a breath, bro.”

Harry does.

And, “You can bet your sorry arse I’m not taking notes. Ask Mills if I do that in class.” Niall finishes.

“ _Ugh_ , I’m just…” Harry exhales, letting the three ironed button-ups fall from his grip to the floor. His unbuckled belt ends clang together. He lets his head fall too. “ _Please come with me this Saturday—_ why did I say that?”

Niall shrugs, watching the boy scrub his face with his hands, “You said it, not me,” he lets go of Harry’s shoulders as the brunet ducks away from him, his hands moving to his hair apprehensively, “Do you not want him to go?”

“Of course I want him to go. Lou said he hasn’t been to a meeting before,” Harry begins to pace the small room. Niall begins to open a bag of crisps from his beanbag chair. “But maybe that’s because he, I don’t know, never want to go?” Harry’s gesticulating like crazy now, nearly knocking over his portable ironing board.

Niall pops too many crisps into his mouth. “Or maybe—”

Too late. “Have I really just become _that_ guy? We’re not even, well, not _anything_ , and I’m already forcing him to do things he doesn’t want to do. Do I ever even listen to him?”

Niall chews. “I don’t think—”

Still. “Does he even _like_ me?” Harry blindly tosses one of the button ups over his head, clearly ignoring the once huge problem of choosing a top now that, sure enough, his _entire life_ has turn into one, “I mean, _honestly_? For all I know, I could be so incredibly boring and—what? You don’t think what?”

Niall laughs into his bag of crisps. He swallows before continuing, puffs of golden, cheesy dust rising in the still air, “I don’t think he’d be upset with going even _if_ he didn’t want to.”

Harry blinks, mid-button.

Niall continues. “He gets to go some place with you, to do something that you love, something that he’s never tried before. I think he wants to support you, even if this fundraiser is absolutely nuts.”

Harry samples this, his eyes bouncing back and forth between Niall’s. Niall stands from his seat in an instant, crossing the room in all of three strides. He takes a second to look at Harry rather condescendingly, as if he’s ace in all things Tomlinson and he clearly knows Harry’s being an idiot.

Taking both of Harry’s shoulders in his powdery palms once more, he speaks, “You’re mad if you think he could ever be bored with you.”

A moment passes.

Maybe Louis was right. Niall really does have eyes the colour of the ocean.

There’s a knock on the door.

“Shit, fuck, _dammit—_ ” Harry’s scrambling, sidestepping once, twice, three times yet ultimately returning to the same place, “Do I look okay?” he brushes his hair out with his fingers and buckles his belt, “ _Niall_ , do I look okay? Oh my, _shit…”_

Niall’s the first to move, in the proper direction anyway, “Please, any other synonyms for our guest? _God_ , who are you?” he says upon yanking the door open, and yes,standing in the doorway clad in his polo/chinos glory with a shopping list scrunched up in his back pocket is Louis.

“Why, hello, Louis! Welcome to our humble abode. Harold, here, is just finishing up. I hear you’ll be spending the afternoon together?”

Both men look towards Harry, who is just finishing doing up the last button of his shirt. They make eye contact.

Louis smiles, “Ready?” he asks.

☆

By the time the lift’s doors open to the common area, Louis and Harry have both learnt something new: a trip down a cramped lift is impossibly suffocating when no one says a word.

“After you.” Louis smiles awkwardly, and motions ahead.

The common room is relatively empty for a weekend afternoon—no revision groups, riotous footie fans, or unzipped blokes—it’s nearly deserted. It’s as if somehow everyone’s found out Louis’ on the verge of crying, and they are now watching with popcorn from some secret viewing party.

Maybe not. Maybe it’s just nearing winter break and everyone’s got shit to do. Either way, it’s making the silence even more deafening.

“So, I…” Louis starts, but there’s a chest in his face. _Oh_. “Oh.”

“Why are you acting weird?” Harry exhales.

Louis’ face contorts in confusion, stepping back sheepishly as he eyes the boy. He’s standing directly in front of him, the mere span on his shoulders casting a shadow over Louis’ entire body.

Louis swallows dryly, scoffing, “Weird? I’m not acting weird.”

Harry’s eyes rake over Louis’ face uncertainly. “Yes,” He swallows, “You’re acting weird.”

Louis swallows back. “Maybe _you’re_ acting weird.”

“You keep looking at yourself in reflective surfaces.”

“You asked me three times if I was having fun before we even left your floor.”

“But you…” Harry pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, “Okay, fair,” he whispers, flattening out his shirt, “It’s just…”

Louis watches as Harry stops himself there, eyes trained on the floor. There’s a shift in the air that makes Louis stomach turn—something shy, something _doubtful_ —which ultimately causes him to step forward and place his hand on the boy’s tense forearm. 

“What?” Louis says, trying to kick the shakiness from his voice.

Harry looks up. His arm relaxes under Louis’ light grip. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to,” He says it so quickly Louis nearly misses it, his words merely a cool draft blowing right between them, “I’d never try to make you go, please don’t feel obligated—”

“Is my outfit really that bad?”

Harry blinks.

“What? _No_ ,” He gives Louis a once over, twice over, _three times_ over, all while Louis begins to laugh, “Of course not. You look fine, _great_ , really, more than great, you look—” 

“Shhhh, I’m kidding,” Honestly, Louis’ surprised they’ve been able to mask their insecurities for this long. Louis squeezes his arm, “It’s just a joke.”

Harry runs his free hand over his face, exhaling lightly. Louis can feel his heartbeat through the cotton of his shirt. And maybe Harry can feel his, too.

They exhale in unison.

Louis lets his arm free. “If I’m honest, I was worried about disappointing you.” Louis admits.

Harry hitches his bag farther up his shoulder, “Disappointing me?” he repeats, incredulously.

Louis releases a puff of air, “I didn’t know what to wear, what to say, what to _do_ ,” Louis is shaking his head habitually, “This is your passion, your people, and I don’t want to embarrass you.”

“That’s crazy,” Harry gushes, before he even realizes he has, “I can’t wait for them to meet you. They’re your people too.”

Louis smiles to himself. And then Harry’s smiling too. They begin walking toward the doors.

Louis exhales, “And here I was thinking my life was coming to an end at two p.m.”

Harry laughs. “And here I was thinking I was a middle-aged mum dragging you out to run errands.”

Louis’ eyes return to him, smirking, “You are a middle-aged mum.”

 _And_ , they’re back.

☆

“ _Harry_!”

So Louis’ life might _actually_ be coming to an end at two p.m.—that, if the energetic dirty blonde hurtling herself across the conference room doesn’t slow her roll.

Louis braces for impact.

And it’s a magnificent, _explosive_ impact, full of arms and hands and excited squealing, hair in both their mouths and gold in their eyes. Harry swings her around time and time again until Louis loses count, only setting her down when people begin to shake their heads amicably.

“Amy, my love,” Harry gasps breathlessly, like he hasn’t seen her in _years_ , and Louis swears they’d just seen each other a week ago, “I expect this welcome long into our seventies.”

Louis’ so caught up in the embrace he barely even notices her bellowing laugh, or her eyes locking on him.

“ _Louis_ ,” She says, with the whole world in her brown eyes, “You must be Louis.” and _yes_ , he must be, but Louis would also have to be absolutely mad to remember how to articulate words while she’s looking at him like that.

Luckily, Harry’s developed immunity over the past year. “At least that’s what I’ve been told,” Harry jests, stepping closer to Louis instinctually. Louis feels the boy’s hand nestle itself at his lower back, a touch that brings him back to the ground, “Louis, this is Amelia Wilson. GSA president, ray of sunshine, and lesbian role model to young girls everywhere.” 

“Actually, I just go by Amy.” She winks, leaving the rest of the statement as is, as she should, “And it is a pleasure to meet you.”

Louis can’t help the smile that seizes his lips when he takes her small hand, ruby-red coloured nails and all, or the sound he makes when she pulls him into a hug.

“Anyone Harry trusts enough to meet _me_ really must be a keeper,” She whispers, and she’s barely five-feet-tall, but somehow, she makes them fit together, “You’re family now, Louis.”

Louis exhales into her tiny frame, the abruptness of her sincerity merely a passing thought, as the boy to his side chuckles. Louis’ sure Harry hadn’t heard Amy’s words—so soft, _Louis_ barely had—but Louis doubts he cares. He’s seeing two of his favourite people hug, and he’s smiling just as widely as he had on that afternoon.

“I guess I could use one more sister.” Louis whispers back, and with one final squeeze, Amy lets him free, her attention slipping back to Harry momentarily.

“So, my loves,” She slides each of her hands into theirs, “We’ve got some fundraiser planning to do!”

Before Louis can cringe, Amy pulls them into the decorated room, twirling them about in time with her twirling skirt. As they cross the floor, she brands each passer-by with an excellent, theatrical introduction. It’s a type of attention to detail Louis will never have.

So there’s Mark, and Chris, and Alex, and Sarah, and Lily, and Annie, and Jordan, and George, and Jonathon, _and_ —as they pass student after student, table after table, colourful banner after awareness poster, Louis’ heart begins to swell with anticipation, with familiarity—maybe he finally understands what Harry had meant. And what he’s been missing. He may never forgive himself.

But of course, as they round the room and then approached the front table, he finally lays eyes on Jack and Luci.

“Guys,” Amy whispers excitedly, finally releasing the two boys, “We’ve got a special guest.”

There are flyers and checklists in front of them, but that all seemed to be forgotten the minute they look up. “Louis!” Luci exclaims almost instantly, pushing up from her chair, but not before, “Oh, there he is.” Jack smiles, making his way around the white foldout table.

Louis barely has the time to process why his name has fallen so effortlessly off their tongues before he’s pulled into another hug, this time from Luci.

Her perfume engulfs him immediately. “Hi,” Louis says lamely, his words sounding blissfully dazed, “You must be Luci.”

Her bronzed skin is shining as she pulls away, “Luciana Flores, event coordinator extraordinaire,” her name rolls off her tongue with a Mexican flare, her dark eyes creasing up in a smile, “And personal love life advisor to your honey.”

Harry’s eyebrows furrow as she turns her head toward him accusingly, and “Don’t.” Harry groans as she giggles uncontrollably, brushing her hair from her eyes.

“Seems I’m extraordinary in that department as well.”

“Luci!”

“ _What_? He’s a cutie…”

Jack steps forward then, offering his hand to Louis before he positively loses his mind, “I’m Jack. Jack Miles.” he rolls his eyes amicably, Harry and Luci grabbing at each other playfully behind him, “Extraordinarily normal.”

Louis laughs at that, his eyes bouncing back and forth between the set of absolute toddlers and the blue-eyed man standing before him, “Louis Tomlinson.” Louis says, shaking Jack’s hand, and he may just have one of those smiles Louis will never get tired of seeing. 

Four p.m. rolls around somewhere during the next ten minutes. Honestly, Louis is not sure when he lost track of time, but if the smile on Harry’s face when Amy addressed the crowd, the looks of good-humoured encouragement across every single person, and the cheers that erupted afterwards mean anything—it’s going to be a _kickass_ spooning fundraiser.


	9. Chapter Nine

“What the fuck is Harry doing?”

Louis snorts into his mobile’s receiver, nearly causing Cassandra to drop his tea. She flashes him a crooked look, her Santa hat nearly falling from her head, and Louis mouths apologies fervently. A small smile tugs at her lips as he takes the warm cup from her hands.

“Louis?” Zayn groans, finally.

 _“_ Yeah. No cigar, mate,” _Herbal/Louis_ is scrawled across the plastic lid in red ink, as if the two are interchangeable and Louis is some sort of variant of the beverage. He’s drunk so much of it lately he might as well be. Sandwiching his mobile in the crook of his neck to fish out two pounds, “I ask myself that question every day—thanks, love—and I’ve got no answer, as of yet.”

“Have a good one, Louis!” Cassandra calls as Louis tucks his wallet back into his beige chinos. He waves her off, and then readjusts his fringe with the quick brush of a dry hand.

When he bounds through Arch’s set of chiming red doors, another happy elf painting seeing him out, he brings the cup closer to his nose. He inhales the rich earthy scent. It doubles as a personal heater, just barely burning the pads of his fingers and the insides of his icy nostrils, but it feels heavenly nonetheless. It takes a considerable amount of effort not to hang up on Zayn and shove his other hand in his tea.

“So, I’m walking back from Stratner’s, right,” Louis hears Zayn continue over the sounds of the street, to which he hums in acknowledgement, “Hood up, earbuds in, minding my own… that until I pass Crane East. There were posters _everywhere_ , Louis. Literally, not even three feet between each one. And just what did I think when I slowed down to read one?”

 _“What the fuck is Harry doing_?” Louis supplies, having downed a long sip of the brownish-yellow liquid. The words fall from his tongue far too easily, reigniting some type of love-stuck warmth in his chest, “I ran into him mid-plaster last week.” Louis adds.

“And you didn’t think to… I don’t know,” Zayn scoffs on the other end of the line. “Give me a little heads up?”

“What does it have to do with you?” Louis stops to punch the ‘walk’ button on a fairly decorative street pole. Traffic flows in either direction before him. He scowls at the tiny red hand, which is impeding him from the warmth of his flat. Bastard.

“I have to be seen with you idiots.”

“Well, how’d you know it was him?” Louis asks, genuinely curious. Harry hadn’t put his name on the poster. Or a photo of himself, for that matter.

Zayn doesn’t hesitate. “The posters greet the public in forty-six different languages, who bloody else would it be?”

“That is true,” Louis snorts, crossing the white-striped tarmac, “And slightly hilarious.”

“And maybe I’ve seen his handwriting before. Look, why’s he doing it?”

Louis takes a deep breath, crunching a stray leaf under his shoe. “Basically, I don’t like spooning, so he’s trying to find a new spooning partner,” Louis almost laughs as he says it, “This is his way, I guess. Selflessly donating to a help organization. That’s what the GSA meeting was about.”

That wrings a full laugh out of Zayn, _finally_ , it’s a laugh that has Louis’ chest warming up again, “Is there a specific reason why you won’t let him spoon you?” Zayn continues, now obviously amused.

“I don’t let anyone spoon me.”

“That is true,” Zayn echoes, and Louis’ sure the both of them are smiling. Last time Zayn tried to spoon Louis, he received nothing but the cold shoulder and a bruised lip for all of two hours. Well, Louis’ cold shoulder lasted two hours, the bruising lasted up and through student ID photos. “Are you bothered by it?”

“By what?” Louis is still giggling like a fool.

Zayn doesn’t seem to notice. “He’s gonna be openly cuddling other men in front of you.” He says bluntly, causing Louis to chuckle into his tea.

“And women.”

“Even worse.”

“It’s a bloody hug, Zayn.”

“A _horizontal_ hug.”

“It’s gonna last like five seconds a piece, why are—”

“All bets are off when it’s horizontal.” Zayn cuts in.

“—you being…” Louis stops himself there, voice and feet, throwing up his hands in defeat. A drop of tea tumbles down to the cracked pavement below. “Shit, he’s not _actually_ looking for someone else, Zayn. It’s a fundraiser, ever heard of a kissing booth?”

Pedestrians are passing on either side of Louis as he stands still on the pavement, hands outstretched and wit outdone. A brisk gust of wind flutters through his opened jacket, ruffling up his day-old fringe.

“Sure, but the lads sat in the booths aren’t usually in a relationship.”

Louis rounds the corner to their street. He doesn’t even swallow before speaking, “What’re you talking about?”

“Did you not know you were in one?”

Louis laughs loudly. “I’m not. We’re not, well, anything. We’re not anything because we’re not in a relationship.”

“Yous are together all the time, constantly touching and giggling like loved-up idiots, eating the bakery out of house and home, and I’m pretty sure you’ve snogged on our sofa at least five times. Probably more than that, if I’m honest,” Louis just listens, he doesn’t correct him, “Which is gross, but I’ll get over it.”

“Zayn—” Louis tries.

“You’re not dating because no one wants to bring it up, not because you actually aren’t,” Louis doesn’t try this time. Zayn continues. “So, all I’m saying is, things are different. He’s yours now.”

A moment passes.

Louis doesn’t spend that moment pondering the truth of his statement, or analyzing every touch over the last two months, or counting the proper amount of times they’ve snogged on that sofa. He absolutely does nothing of the sort.

It’s six.

“Whatever _,_ forget it. If you’re not worried, I’m not worried.” Zayn says finally, surrendering to the silence. Perhaps he could feel Louis’ mind beginning to overheat.

Louis exhales lightly. “Is there anything else you want to talk about? I’m getting bored here.” Louis downs the rest of his tea and tosses the empty cup into a steel bin.

Zayn laughs in return. “I’m nearing the shop now. A new shipment of records came in today and Oliver and I are scheduled to put them in stock. Wanna come by? They’re the good ones, ones we’ve been out of for age. Beatles, Bowie, Cash, Zeppelin… _Queen_ —”

“Say no more. I’m there.” Louis declares, switching his mobile to the other hand. He shoves his neglected left hand into the intense heat of his pocket, and then moans rather obscenely into the receiver. “Ah wait, shit. No, I’m not there.”

Louis can hear the chime of Avalanche’s metallic door through his mobile. “Hot date?” Zayn deadpans.

“Harry. The season premiere of America’s Next Top Model is on at eight and I promised I’d watch it with him.”

There’s a pause on the other end. Louis can actually hear Zayn processing the irony. More specifically, whether to pity laugh or take the piss.

“Hot.” He comments.

Louis sides with the latter. Still, “Maybe I can get him to come by with me, afterwards?” Louis tries, and Zayn groans loudly into his mobile, bluntly and obnoxiously. Louis actually has to pull his mobile away from his ear. “Or maybe I’ll take him to the cinema and lose him? Run away when lost-and-found calls for me over the loudspeakers?”

“Freddie is absolutely rolling in his grave, I hope you know.”

Believe him, he does. Zayn sighs once more, the sound now more of amicable acceptance than blatant offence, and Louis ducks into his flat complex’s tiny car park. He bounds straight for the lift, pushing the red button repeatedly.

“Another time, then.” Zayn says eventually, and Louis’ entire body shivers. The classic rock withdrawals have already ensued, it seems. “Have fun, Tommo.”

The lift door can’t open fast enough. “Have fun, too.” Louis says.

☆

So, they’d made it halfway through the introduction of eighteen screaming girls before Harry’s whining became unbearable.

It was odd, that. Considering Harry had been so determined to watch the daft programme that it separated Louis from his classic rock dads during their night at the opera and now… _now_ Harry’s proclaiming his impending death. 

“Lou…”

“No.”

“Louis…”

“You should have gotten some when you were at work, Harry.”

“I worked afternoons… I wasn’t hungry when I was at work…”

“No.”

“I’m gonna _die_ if—”

“Good.”

“You don’t mean that…”

Louis shoves a double-dipped crisp into his mouth, “And I thought _I_ was obsessed,” he shoves the remote towards the screen, “Look, another girl is about to cry. This is riveting content.”

Harry doesn’t even spare the brunette a single glance. He’s too busy plastering his face to Louis’ knee and grumbling like a toddler. His lips are impossibly pink.

“But _éclairs…_ and _milkshakes_ …”

“Or is that the same girl?” Louis asks as he licks the sour cream off of his index and thumb, not even sparing Harry a single glance—one part curious; three parts cruel, “Y’never know, really. They all look the same.”

Harry takes a look then, and Louis plops another crisp in his mouth from the platter beside his hip. Louis eyes the boy, crunching silently and observing the way the flickering light of the television dances across his pale skin.

Harry points. “Different girls. That one’s Victoria.” He sighs a little too whole-heartedly, turning on his side and using Louis’ thigh as a pillow. Louis’ hand nestles itself in his hair.

They watch at least ten more seconds of melodramatic crying before Louis shuts off the television.

“Is Arch even open at half eight?” Louis asks, and “Oh, thank _god_.” Harry erupts, springing to his feet so quickly he nearly topples over.

☆

Cassandra is still on shift when they bound through the red doors, and Louis doesn’t bother to mention how he knows that.

Until Cassandra does. “Welcome back!”

Harry stops. She continues to wave amicably from across the decorated cafe, spray bottle and rag placed on the tabletop before her.

“Love!” Louis calls back through a smile, quickly ducking away from Harry’s still frame before he can slap the daylights out of Louis’ arm. He giggles like mad all the way to Cassandra, shaking the cold off his shoulders as he greets her, “Hey, babe. Closing up shop?”

“Yeah, it’s almost nine—”

“And you were having a go at me!” Louis and Cassandra direct their attention to the boy plodding across the cafe. Harry sighs loudly, touching the leg of a chair forlornly as it sits upside down on the tabletop, “Cass, pity me. How many times has he been here today?”

 _Three_. “That’s classified, Harry,” She doesn’t even hesitate, Louis loves her, “It’s server-customer confidentiality.”

Harry scoffs. “That’s absolutely not a thing.”

She nods solemnly, with the spray bottle over her heart. “Part of Arch’s new Customer Confidentiality Code, it is.”

“I _work_ here—”

Louis side steps between them, “Enough time for an order?” he interrupts.

“Sure,” She says, and Louis laughs even louder, turning back to Harry as Cassandra drops the cleaning supplies into a box at her feet. She’s got a shit-eating grin on her face as Harry grumbles, all the way to the backside of the till, “Hi there, welcome to Arch. What can I get you?”

She wipes her hands on her green apron, smiling at Harry until he smiles back.

☆

“I’m starting to believe you only go to Arch on my off hours, just to later hypocritically torment me about my habits.”

“ _Starting_?”

Harry shows him a sideways glance, sipping up vanilla shake from his straw. Louis eyes him until he’s smiling again, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he lets out a short laugh. This how Louis wants to be remembered—warm éclair in one hand, vanilla shake in the other, Harry’s laugh filling the rainy silence of the empty street.

Their shoes smack off the pavement in unison. A shiver runs down Louis’ spine. “Harry, I’m _freezing_. Why did we choose a frozen drink, again?”

He takes a bite of his éclair, the streetlights above causing the chocolate icing to shimmer, “You’ve got a warm pastry too, why don’t you try a bite of that?” he hums pleasantly when Louis snorts, “ _Yeah_ , definitely try that.”

Louis does. “You see, I’d zip up my jacket, but that would mean dropping one of these. I’m not looking for seven years of bad luck…”

Louis’ thought trails off when the slightly slanted neon red logo appears in the distance. It’s like a ray of sunshine, a glimmer of hope, the Holy Grail to a man holding two holy grails, hanging starkly against the deep night sky—it’s _beautiful_. And most likely heated.

“C’mon.” Louis nudges the arm of the boy, who’s just conveniently plopped the rest of the chocolate-covered dough in his mouth.

Harry flinches. “Sorry?”

Louis’ dads are awaiting him. “Trust me.”

**☆**

_Nothing really matters… to me…_

“Oh, thank god.” Louis erupts as he steps into Avalanche—one part because of the twenty-degree increase, three parts because of the divine musical rhapsody, “Zayn, my love, my idol, my _brother_. I’ve heard nothing but Christmas carols for the past week, I was nearly dead.”

Louis would have expected him to startle. Possibly a shout, maybe drop something, even just a tad. But if fifteen years of friendship taught him anything, it’s that Zayn only reacts to two things: turtle races and footie scores.

Zayn doesn’t even move. He’s standing on the laminate floor with his back to the doorway, slowly looking over his shoulder, “And you didn’t wanna just go ahead with it?” he deadpans, “I mean, you were nearly there.”

Harry snorts into his knitted scarf, tossing both his and Louis’ garbage into the bin beside the counter. “Lou doesn’t finish anything, remember?” He jests, placing his hand on the small of Louis back, guiding them both farther into the shop.

“Ha, ha,” Louis could cry. And, transition. “What’re you working on there, Z?” He asks, taking at least two strides to close the gap between them.

Zayn sidesteps slightly before speaking, “Smooth transition,” Of course _._ “I’m just testing out this gramo. Found it amongst the mess in the back when I was sorting boxes earlier, works like a charm.”

Louis eyes the dusty wood a little too lovingly. It’s the colour of black coffee. “Got all its kit?” He examines, running a finger along the rolled, scalloped rim of the horn.

“Yeah, mate,” Zayn runs his own fingers over the arm, “It may need a needle replaced, but other than that, it’s in good nick.”

“Yeah?” Louis’ almost offended to hear it, considering the shop’s been leaking the local radio station’s dreadful loop through its wide-speakers since the day they discovered the joint. As if this fine piece of musical history _hadn’t_ been forgotten in a back room the entire time. It’s a logic Louis will never understand, and Zayn will never hear the end of.

“She’s beautiful.” Zayn whispers.

She is. “I’m quite surprised with how good it sounds. You?” The tune continues to funnel out of the machine with an air of beautiful age, something only a genuine gramophone or phonograph will give you. 

Too many minutes pass before he hears Zayn hum absentmindedly from beside him, a sound that can only suggest yes.

_Who wants…_

_to live…_

_forever…_

“Shit.” Louis all but moans, his knee nearly giving out, and _damn_ —this is obscene, it’s illegal, too good for this world. Louis is almost on the floor when there’s a thump from the back room.

Zayn switches the machine off. He’s picked up the needle and lifted the record free before Louis even realizes it. He all but tackles him. “Zayn! Please, _brother_!”

“Shop closes in a half hour. Oliver and I still got heaps of records to store. I’ve been messing about for too long already,” He says, once the record has been returned to its sleeve and placed on top of a record stack. He runs a hand through his quiff as he smirks. “It’ll be here tomorrow, Tommo, don’t cry.”

So that _was_ a tear Louis felt. “Zayn, please, I’m gonna die if…” Louis exhales, his feet jumping to trail the boy before remembering his other boy is still in the room. And laughing. At Louis’ desperation.

Harry’s got his mobile in his hands and a smirk on his lips, “I reckoned I’d let yous chat about that music-y stuff,” Harry shrugs, pushing off the front counter, “But this… _this_ is hilarious.”

Even Zayn is smiling as he rounds the counter and switches on the local radio station again, halfway through Holly Jolly Christmas, before offering Harry a pat on the shoulder. When he passes Louis a final time, he’s whispering, “Teach you for abandoning your dads.”

Louis could cry. Again.

“Oh, and,” Zayn stops with records in hand, as if he’s suddenly thought of something—that something being a hasty turn on his heels and a bloody death stare directed at Louis, “I swear to god, Louis, if you break something, I’ll break you.”

Harry grabs both Louis’ wrists with one hand. “He won’t,” He interjects, tightening his grip as he shows off their hands like a bloody show-and-tell. Louis’ so lost in the boy’s touch he nearly forgets his part—nodding, smiling at Harry like his skin isn’t burning, and then shrugging obediently at his restrain. “I’ll keep my eye on him, Zayn.”

Louis looks down from their hands just as Zayn does. The brunet eyes them a little too suspiciously. Then, “Right, sure,” he lets out a dry chuckle, shaking his head as he budges the stack up his hip and wobbles towards the stock room, “Just wait until he plays the babying card.”

To be honest, Louis, Self-Proclaimed Adult and Capable Human, might not be so upset with babying if it means he gets the boy’s hands on him again.

Rhetorically, “What am I, seven?” Louis calls at Zayn once he’s finally disappeared behind the black curtain, and, for any part of Louis that thought the bloke would miss the opportunity to insult him: “More like four.” Zayn calls back.

Harry barks out a chuckle then, finally releasing Louis’ skin, “He’s my idol, I swear.” Harry says, shaking his head as he strolls over to a bin of records.

Louis looks up from his wrist, “I hate both of you.” he says unconvincingly, watching the boy smile to himself.

Louis’ halfway through his own bin of records when the boy speaks again, “So, Lou,” Harry starts, quiet and wavering, “I was thinking about the fundraiser, and what if it’s not just me?”

Louis snorts, his back to the boy, “If you’re thinking this might actually find you a spooning partner, then no, it’s just you.”

“No, I mean,” Harry laughs too, “What if we get other people to search for their own partners, too?”

Louis stops.

Harry continues when Louis doesn’t. “Like,” Harry strolls over to another case full of records— _Indie: titles from T-Z—_ seeming to be led by his hands. He leaves his thought linger for a moment extra before explaining, “I doubt I can spoon all those people in so little time. If we had more than one station, more than one spooner, all spooning at the same time, we could make better time, better money. And maybe find some people their own spooning partners.”

Louis sighs lightly. Don’t get him wrong, Louis likes this idea, he really does, but he always carries an insecure feeling when stepping out of his comfort zone. This is no different. And right now, it’s particularly strong.

“Do you really think that many people are gonna show?” Louis asks, gently.

Instead of laughing, Harry just nods to himself and crosses the floor to another bin of records. “Y’know, I really do. And if not, it’s a nice afternoon in the sun with my mates.”

Louis samples that, gargles it around for a moment, and then comes to the conclusion that the boy’s right. He guesses that’s the difference between them—the optimist and the pessimist. Harry worries about not having enough spooners, and Louis worries about people showing up at all.

“I mean,” Louis starts, turning back to his own— _R &B/Soul: titles from A-H, _“You did invite the public in forty-six languages. Those are some pretty good odds.”

Harry grins in response. Maybe his optimism is wearing off on Louis.

The two stand silently for the next little bit, the sounds of plastic dust jackets and sliding cardboard doing all the talking for them. It’s odd, Louis doesn’t feel the unsettling sensation in his tummy, or hear the monotonous voice in his head reminding him of how awkward and terrible this is—he feels at peace.

He flicks through array of colours and textures and scents, all of them flooding his every sense. He can feel the story of each piece of music as his fingers graze the plastic tops, like he’s touching the past and the present and the future, all dust-jacketed and alphabetically organized.

Louis’ fingers stop upon a beloved record from 1972. He slips it out of its spot, running his hands along the smooth plastic. He eyes the woman on the cover, slumped over a grand piano.

Until, “Do you think this is a good idea?” Harry asks.

Maybe some of Louis’ pessimism is wearing off on Harry.

“More spooners?” Louis leans on his right hip, angling the record in the light, “You can always bring it up with Amy. Or maybe ask—”

“No, the whole fundraiser.”

Louis pauses. “Yes, of course.” He says, stern this time. He turns to face the boy, but he’s met with his back.

“It’s not, weird or something? For you?” Harry continues, his voice hush and directed at the wall. Louis wants him to turn around. With Harry on one side of the shop and Louis on the other, it’s strange how they can be so far yet so focused on things close to home. Louis doesn’t quite like the feeling blooming in his stomach.

Still, “Weird how?” Louis mumbles, keeping his voice at an unfazed plateau.

“I don’t know, like, you know this isn’t serious, right? This isn’t me trying to replace you.”

“Replace me?” Louis gawks, watching his back rise and fall. Harry is still sifting through his case, like he’s somehow separate from the words he’s saying.

“Because I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. Lou, you’re…”

“Haz, I know. Of course, I know.”

Harry takes a moment to process that. Louis is seconds away from closing the space between them and taking the boy’s silly head in his hands, when an idea strikes him.

His eyes flick back and forth between the record in his hands and the antique gramophone. He needs to work quickly.

Louis moves across the floor, stepping up to the audio panel. Now… how the _hell_ does one switch from radio to phono? Louis likes to think that the art of playing a record is a skill he happens to obtain, but when he’s looking at a console with more wires than pluggable space, more components than otherwise necessary, the scale model of the blimmin’ _Hadron Collider_ —Louis is about as lost as Harry when it comes to classic rock.

How did Zayn do this so quickly? Is Zayn actually a valued employee? Though, there _is_ a small red button that looks like it might do something simple and uncomplicated. Like, switching the shop’s audio source from radio to phono.

Louis turns back, half expecting to have a pair of eyes staring back at him. Instead, Harry’s moved to the next bin of records, completely unaware of Louis’ recent escapade.

He returns his attention to the suspect button. On one hand, this button could merely stop the monstrosity that’s currently blaring through the shop-wide speakers, leaving them all in an eerie, yet thankful, silence.

On second hand, the button could be red because red actually means _stop_ or _no_ or _don’t you bloody dare_ , and by pressing the piece of plastic, Louis could gum up the entire shop’s speaker system forever, leaving the customers with nothing but Zayn-provided live music.

Absolute tragedy. He couldn’t.

But on third hand, no matter which of the three hands end up slapping Louis in the face, he will get Harry’s hands on him again. And that’s. Well.

Louis presses the button.

The world doesn’t end. The shop doesn’t implode. Harry doesn’t scream, and Zayn and Oliver definitely don’t come wielding about the shelves with news of his eminent demise—it’s only the shop-wide Christmas carol, cutting out with a slight pop. Then, there’s an electronic click and Louis’ switching on the power on the gramophone.

The record starts spinning.

_Mission Accomplished._

Harry nearly faints. “Lou!” He practically screeches, spinning on his heels, and Louis would be absolutely mad to hide his smirk as he drops the needle, “I took my eyes off of you for five blimmin’ minutes—what did you break?”

Harry stops maybe three strides from Louis’ back, as if the crisp crackling sound of the tune has flooded between them and created a mote. The track literally made him stop in his tracks. So, as smugly as any human has ever been, Louis turns on his heels and asks, quietly, “May I have this dance?”

A moment passes.

Despite having raised one eyebrow inquisitively, Harry finishes closing the distance between them. He drapes his hands over Louis’, finally looking Louis in the eyes.

“You’re…” He begins, like he’s building the courage, “You’re everything, Lou.”

Louis would cry if the first verse weren’t so close to beginning. He’d quite like to be in his pal’s arms right about now, in a way that won’t inspire a selfless fundraiser.

So, he slides his palm along Harry’s arm until it nestles on his shoulder. Harry places his hand on the small of Louis’ back, the gentlest touch Louis thinks he’ll ever feel, and then leads them away from the gramophone, right to the center of a room made of records.

And just in time.

_The first time, ever I saw your face…_

☆

Zayn comes out of the back room minutes later, when Louis’ head has fallen to rest on the boy’s swaying shoulder.

Zayn stops immediately.

With his eyes glazing over the two tangled silhouettes, he stands still in the doorway. The record transitions into the next crackling tune, quiet and warm, and he _swears_ Harry’s eyes haven’t left the man in his arms since. He doubts they ever will. 

Zayn doesn’t care what Louis thinks.

That boy is definitely Louis’.


	10. Chapter Ten

“Would you— _no_. Go left, Lou, _left_.”

“I am. This is left, right?”

“No, go _left_. Not my left, your left.”

“My left?”

“Right.”

“ _Right_?”

“No, left. But left is right, not right.”

Louis drops the entire bed.

Harry’s laughter beats him to it, whatever _it_ is—blubbering, shrieking, wallowing in despair, etcetera—and, “Oh my god, Lou,” Harry doubles over and kicks the brass forlornly, “This was not supposed to be this hard.”

In light of their inevitable demise, Louis didn’t think it would be either. Don’t get him wrong—Louis was never top-class in geometry. Not even close. He was more of a daydreamer than a bookworm, but if he remembers anything at all, it was that bigger rectangles do not fit in smaller rectangles.

He knew it last night. He knew it this morning. He knew it when Harry volunteered himself and Louis to _singlehandedly_ lug Harry’s bed down and out of East—in short, there was absolutely, one hundred present, a fraction of Louis’ mind that sensed a potential impasse.

But he’d been lost in Harry’s dimples again.

Silly. Fool. Idiot.

A silly, foolish idiot who _smiled_ when Luciana asked if they were sure, who _smiled_ _again_ when she shot them a concerned glance, who _laughed_ in the cramped lift on the way down to the foyer, and who is now completely blocking the entrance to an entire dormitory.

Anyway, _Spooning Fundraiser Mission 1: Get Beds Onto Grass_ has failed.

“What now, Captain?” Louis asks, after having taken a seat on the bed, because if they’re going to be an inconvenience to a hundredth of the university’s population, might as well do it comfortably.

Harry seems to like this idea. He takes a seat beside Louis without much thought at all, his breaths sharp and quick. They both stare out the opened front door and over the plains of frosty campus grass, the plains of freedom.

Their ankles knock together. Harry sighs. “Wanna call for help? We’ve got Niall, Cass, Liam, and Luci upstairs. Amy and Jack must be out on the lawn by now…”

Louis shakes his head. “No, no.” He’s sure that Amy and Jack have their hands full already—successfully doing everything Harry and Louis _should_ be doing right now—and honestly, Louis doesn’t want to bother the others with it. He’s sure that Luci has recruited them by now anyway, sorting out the rest of the available bed frames. And Zayn, well, he isn’t very partial to fundraisers.

 _I’d sooner die,_ he’d said over a bowl of cereal that morning, _I’d prefer actually death, Louis_.

They both take a breath. 

“It’ll fit if we turn it to your left,” Harry says eventually, “I repeat, your _left_ —a.k.a. that way, towards the sofas, the poorly decorated Christmas tree, and all the staring students,” he ducks into Louis’ collar sheepishly, yanking on Louis’ pointer finger and pointing it across the room, “That way, okay? This is sad.”

Louis laughs a little too fondly. He nods thoughtfully, and presses a kiss to the back of Harry’s hand. “Ten-four, Captain.”

And then, “Fucking poofs.”

Even through the thin doorway of crisp, December wind, Louis can hear the remark as it sails across the lawn and over to where he and Harry are sitting. It’s choppy and quick and frankly unexpected as it slaps him across the face, but Louis would be mad not to recognize the blatant ignorance. 

And if his childhood taught him anything, this is where he takes the long way home.

Instead, Harry stands to his feet with just enough reverence that Louis nearly throws up. He can’t seem to stop him matter how hard he tries.

And, “What?” Harry calls back, _politely_ , his hands cupped around his mouth. Louis’ hands are frozen by his sides.

The sound travels back over to the playground bullies, three blokes who all look the same, clad in khakis and the newest model of athletic shoes. They’re stood under a large oak tree nearly twenty feet away, speckled shade dusting over their skin as they gravitate around a repulsive blond haired bloke, surely the source of the comment.

“Haz, please—”

Harry’s barely given Louis a sideways glance before another one pipes up—lanky, highlighted hair, sporting sunnies in autumn, “Oi, what was that?” he jabs Blonde Bloke in the ribs, gathering his mates’ attention when they don’t immediately notice Harry’s response.

For split second, Blond Bloke looks surprised, returning his gaze to Harry as if he didn’t actually think he’d get a reply. Louis can see that Blond Bloke is used to a life of hurling slurs without repercussion, and to be honest, Louis’ not sure if that’s a good thing or an absolutely terrible thing.

The shock lasts, after all, only a second. “If you’re gonna act like a girl then just be a girl.” Blond Bloke yells, like he actually thinks he’s making sense, before, “Choose a bloody side and act like it, fags.” the other one pipes up, right when Louis was beginning to believe he was only for show. He’s shorter, with an ashy fringe painted over one eye in a way that must inconvenience him. It looks like he barricaded himself in 2007 while the world moved on.

Louis returns his attention to Harry. “Ignore them, really—” He tries, but “What do you mean, _choose a side_?” Harry yells again, and he still isn’t angry, or threatening, he’s genuinely curious—as if _poofs_ and _fag_ and _sick_ weren’t enough. For a drama major, Louis feels sick.

Their bodies continue to bump off each other as they titter manically. Louis locks eyes with a girl across the lawn. She frowns.

Louis stands to his feet. “Harry,” He bites the inside of his cheek and tugs hurriedly on Harry’s sleeve, like a child, “Please, just…”

The trio begins to march towards them. They are accompanied by the hushed murmur of bystanders.

“He’s practically holding your hand, mate.” Blond Bloke spits, and before Louis can yank his hand away, he and Harry have both glanced down at their hands. Louis’ practically white knuckled as he grips the fabric. He releases the sleeve like it’s on fire, and the look on Harry’s face hurts more than the name calling ever will. 

They both startle at the sound of Blond Bloke’s voice, now louder and harsher as the gap between them lessens to the span of three strides. Up close, the three look impossibly similar, the smell of cologne and cigarettes nauseatingly intense.

“Girls touch blokes like that, love up on them like that, that’s what _girls_ do. He’s acting like a bloody girl.”

Little by little, people are beginning to stare. Students meant to pass by East on their way to class are stopping, footie fans in East’s common room are lowering the television’s volume, students sprawled out on the lawn are standing up—but _no one_ is doing a thing.

And for some reason, neither is Louis.

“I don’t think I understand…” Harry starts, stepping out through the doorway and onto the cobblestone, ultimately in front of Louis. With it, Louis’ vision is essentially blocked, the mere width of the boy’s back taking up most of the doorway, “What are you talking—”

And then the three blokes are stepping up to Harry, crowding him, “You think you’re tough? I’d shut your bloody mouth, before we—”

They’re cut off by a voice.

“Boys torment other boys? Is that what _boys_ do?”

It’s as if both Louis’ and Harry’s movements are connected as their heads dart towards the source of the sound. And sure enough, there he is—casually strutting up the lawn like a total vision, with the same expression of exasperation Louis’ become so accustomed to.

_Zayn._

“Who the fuck said that?” Blond Bloke begins, spinning on his heels, but he stops just as quick.

What happens next might actually place them in a Shakespearean drama.

It’s a bloody three-sixty of emotion flashing across all three blokes’ faces as they face their intruder—Lanky Highlights lowering his sunnies, Blond Bloke staring directly at the ground, Edgy Fringe brushing the hair out of his eye, and… and is this _really_ the world Louis lives in? One where Louis can be reduced to a damsel in distress within seconds and Zayn can drop in and slay the villains like it’s no bloody problem at all?

“I, uh,” Blond Bloke starts again, looking away from Zayn’s face, a bumbling mess as he straightens out his shirt, “We, uh…”

_Alas, I am slain!_

Zayn breezes past the trio, patting Harry’s shoulder as he squares up next to him, “Sorry? I missed it, what was that?” he crosses his arms over his chest challengingly, tilting his head as he sizes up the blokes before him, “What were yous gonna do?”

The accused shake their heads, offering up nothing but a heavy silence, and Louis has never been so stunned in his entire life. What have these fools gotten themselves into? Or rather, what _had_ they gotten themselves into? These blokes look like they’re staring death in the face, that, if they were looking up at all. Furthermore, _no_ _one_ looks at Zayn with anything other than mystified awe. Perhaps Zayn really is a role model.

Then, “We weren’t doing anything.” Blond Bloke chokes up.

Zayn takes that dose of bullshit with ease. “That right?” He entertains, stepping closer. Odd, that. Even while being shorter than them, he still looks taller.

The television across the room is muted. “Yeah, Zayn.” Blond Bloke says, and it’s obvious he’s trying to keep his voice at a plateau, but his voice crack and whitened knuckles say otherwise.

Zayn notices this. He redirects his attention. “I dunno, McKinnon, it sure looked like you were about to do something to my boys here.”

“ _Nothing_ , we were gonna do nothing—”

“Oh, great! Glad to hear you’re free, then. My boys would love help with their outrageous fundraiser, wouldn’t they?”

Louis nearly throws up. He’s not quiet sure if this is a dig or the best thing he’s even heard.

“We, uh, well…” Louis starts.

“Yes.” Harry finishes.

Zayn grips Louis’ shoulder encouragingly. There’s a single laugh from East’s common room.

“Right on,” Zayn turns back towards the trio, “Now that that’s settled, c’mon boys, grab a hold of this bed. I reckon one on the head and two on the foot, but feel free to choose a side.”

And they do. The three blokes flood past Zayn like the boy’s just blown a dam, one toward the left and two toward the right, as a small chorus of applause falls background. The television across the way resumes and their hands latch onto the brass, hosting the bed up and passing through the doorway with ease.

Incredulous, empty handed, and standing in the wake their newfound movers, Louis turns towards the boy at his left.

“Holy shit.” Louis swallows.

Harry swallows too. “I can’t believe it.”

“I know. Fuck, what just—”

“They got through the door like it was _nothing_.”

Louis exhales loudly then, shaking his head and running a hand over his eyes. Harry’s laughing beside him, bright and loud like always, but Louis can still hear his heartbeat in his ears, feel his blood pumping through his veins, taste the dead words at the back of his throat. He doesn’t even know how to feel about the last ten minutes.

So, “Thank you.” Louis whispers. 

Harry looks his way slowly, brushing his hair out of his eyes. There’s a slight flush to his skin, making him look even younger in the afternoon light.

“For what?” He asks.

Louis’ hands are still shaking, but it doesn’t stop him from budging up closer to the boy. He grips his sleeves again, sliding their fingers together. Their faces are inches apart when a familiar voice cuts them off.

Louis steps back, “Are they…” he cranes his neck to look through the glass of the door, to where Zayn is returning to East, the three blokes plodding behind him. And by sheer luck alone, the December air has pushed open the front door just wide enough to hear their words.

“Look, Zayn, I thought we were cool—”

Zayn interrupts Blond Bloke with ease. “No, you look. If I catch you cocking up our campus one more time— _any_ of you—I’ll make it a priority to have yous kicked. This is a safe place, that means for _all_ , not just the glorified, ignorant twats.”

All three blokes have gone mute.

Zayn readjusts his quiff, “Great. Let’s get the rest of the beds.” 

☆

“ _Cocking up_ our campus?” Niall drops the last two pillows.

Louis happily picks them up. “I know.”

“A priority to have them kicked?”

“ _I know_.”

Liam smoothens the wrinkles in the thin duvet. “God, he didn’t.”

Harry readjusts a rainbow banner, smiling a little too wide. “Oh, he did.”

Cassandra looks like she’s seconds away from tears. “Did he report them, too?”

“Of course.”

Niall’s still gawking. “Nope, I’m calling it. That shit just doesn’t happen.”

Louis may finally be acclimatized. “Guess who brought the other beds down, too.”

“Oh my god.”

“They’re twats, what can I say.” A voice calls, finally breaking up the madness. Zayn has all five sets of eyes raking over him as he strolls up to the group. There’s smugness dancing in his eyes when he grins, it’s a show-stopping grin, “All hail the king?”

Usually, Louis would be rolling his eyes right now, but the boy _did_ just get vulgar homophobes to set up beds for a gay fundraiser. So, consider Louis a loyal subject. He makes a mental note to ask Zayn just how powerful he really is.

Liam beats him to it. “As much as I’m sure we hate to say it,” He banters, stepping around the foot of the bed to latch himself to the boy’s torso, “You did good today. Unconventionally, but _hilariously_ , good.”

Zayn smiles into Liam’s hair, just catching Louis’ eye. “King Malik, to you.”

Liam flicks his nose upon pulling away, which had scrunched up pompously, and Louis raises an imaginary glass to him. 

And then, “Loves!” a voice calls from across the courtyard, the wind carrying it over to the boys, “Spooner Squad Assemble!”

Though nearly all of them have negative physical reactions to Amy’s new nickname for the group (Harry giggles incessantly), the six make their way over to her anyway, along with nearly ten other volunteers.

Everyone crowds her in the bitter December air. She’s giggling as she speaks, practically beaming, with neon pride paint splotched across her rosy cheeks and a mini plastic megaphone hanging around her neck. “All the beds are in place and properly staged. We’ve set them up in a semi circle—each with their own supervisor, table, and collection box—numbered one through five,” Louis eyes flick across the colourful courtyard, littered with balloons and streamers, “So, if a person wants a certain spooner—either Harry, Jordan, Luci, Jonathon, or Lily—they will wait in the queue and then branch off towards whoever they like.”

The small crowd hums in agreement as she continues, “We’re doing two-minute slots, unlimited. As long as the student gets back in the queue and pays the two quid, they can try as many spooners as they like. That, until the fundraiser is over,” Louis watches a full three-sixty of emotion wash over Zayn’s face from across the circle, mostly hovering around disbelief and shame, Louis loves him, “And at the end, we will have a round up and all our spooners choose their favourite participants. They’ll win a _Prime Spoonee_ award and a small gift basket. Everyone else will have received one of these stickers for participating.”

Amy reaches into her rose coloured bum bag and tugs out far too many sheets of rainbow-coloured circles, all adorned with the GSA’s logo and the phrase _Spooning for Equality._ She passes them around the circle, and before Zayn can make a run for it, she’s speaking again.

“Now, let’s finish putting up those banners and sectioning off the queue area. It’s half eleven and we want to start on time.”

Harry speaks up then. “Brilliant.” He beams, sidestepping to wrap his arms around Amy’s shoulders. He whispers something in her ear that makes her laugh, before dipping his head down to meet her face, planting a light kiss to her rainbow Santa hat, “Thank you for everything.”

“Thank you for making a difference,” She whispers, and to be honest, Louis can only hope to have someone look at him the way Amy is looking at Harry right now, “Even if it’s in your own crazy way.”

Louis gets why Harry loves her.

And next thing Louis knows, she’s breaking away from Harry, clapping her gloved hand against her clipboard and shouting for everyone to get started. The small crowd responds with an array of off-time cheers, each heading off to take care of their own little piece of the fundraiser. Amy even earns a cheer from Louis himself, after which he playfully hits Zayn’s arm and begins toward the rest of the banners resting on the lawn.

There’s a hand on his back before he can make it very far.

“Hey, Louis?”

He spins on his heels instantly, the rest of the boys long gone in their respective directions. It’s just him and Amy, standing in the middle of the lawn as the volunteers bustle around them.

She peers at him with soft brown eyes. “I just wanted to ask how you are.”

It takes a moment for Louis to realize what she’s talking about, mostly because she isn’t smiling widely like she usually does. Amy wouldn’t be caught dead frowning, but there’s seriousness in her face now that’s got her pretty close.

Harry must have told her.

“Oh, I’m fine,” Louis exhales, nodding, “I didn’t think stuff like that still happened, it’s like I forgot what to do.”

The corner of her mouth pops upward, and somehow Louis can tell that she understands. “I know, and it’s crazy that it still does. No one should ever be able to take away your safety like that.”

“Everyone saw it and no one did a thing,” Louis is speaking before he even realizes he is, and when her hand comes down on top of his, small but strong, he can’t _stop_ speaking either, “I can’t help but see people like Harry and Zayn—people who stand up, who _protect_ people like me—and think about all the people who don’t have someone like that in their life,” cheers are heard from across the lawn as the last banner is hoisted into place, but Amy’s attention never breaks, she squeezes his hand instead, “They have no one to stand with them, to support them, to make them feel safe. It’s horrifying.”

Then she smiles, wide and proud.

“That’s who we are.” She says.

Louis looks toward her then, matching her smile, feeling warmth return to his heart. And as the fundraiser comes to life around them, maybe Louis finally understands why they’re doing it.

☆

“Now serving the cutie with the freckles!”

“Spooner Two is a little lonely over here! C’mon, look at him!”

“How about you, Miss? Get in the queue! Find your prince! Or princess—don’t knock it ‘till you try it.”

“Oi! That’s enough rubbing, lovebirds!”

“I’m sorry, you’re going to have to wait. Apparently, Luci is killing it. She has her own queue.”

“And… time’s up! Next spooners!”

With ten minutes left in the fundraiser, something becomes very clear: whoever decided to give Zayn the megaphone deserves _all_ the dumb prize baskets. Because, without that enthralling and potentially inappropriate development, the fundraiser might have just been so—a fundraiser.

But now… _now_ it is so much more.

Let Louis explain.

It started off slow. It was half noon and they’d barely raised enough to cover the balloon budget. Ten minutes after that, there weren’t even enough participants to form a queue, let alone keep each spooner occupied, and Louis was sure that a good part of the willing students were related to the volunteers in some way. Either way, with full sheets of stickers still bumming around in their bumbags, Louis had made anxious eye contact with Harry at least four times.

Then he made eye contact with Zayn, and Zayn got to work.

“Hey, Amy! You lot got that megaphone lying around?” The King had called out, breaking away from Louis’ gaze and jogging across the lawn. Louis could only watch as he ran up to her and her eyes lit up in excitement, and before Louis could ask what was going on, he’d been interrupted in the best way possible.

“Oi! Good Afternoon campus community! Do we ever have a treat for you today!”

Like wildfire, Zayn’s voice spread across the courtyard and fell upon each passerby. His voice seized their attention and then promptly their participation, as willing students of all kinds began to queue up under the hand-painted rainbow banner.

Things picked up from there, you could say.

With Jack jogging up and down the queue, slapping rainbow war paint on accepting cheeks, the funds, crowds, and Zayn’s wittiness all took a turn for the better. Volunteers, spooners, and spoonees alike were beginning to have fun, _real fun_ , shouting and laughing into the frigid December air like the cold somehow fueled their sprits.

Halfway through, Louis’d seen a familiar face talking to Jack, surrounded by his group of mates as they stood below the banner—their _own_ war paint already coating their cheeks. And luckily, the familiar face’s fly was done up this time.

So not a single shred of doubt has crossed Louis’ mind before he’d yelled across the lawn, “Hey, _Will_!” and watched as the bloke’s head immediately turned, the confusion in his eyes quickly replaced by a wave of realization, and for the first time in three months, Niall _was_ right about something.

Will then shushed his group of mates (who had begun to argue with each other over which colour of the rainbow they’d get to be, Jack assuring them that they could be any colour of the rainbow they wanted) and “Brown Crossbody!” he’d shouted back with a fist bump to the air, wearing the same stark white smile as that October night.

So, maybe all the willing participants had nothing better to do. Or maybe they’d been late on getting in their monthly good deed. Or maybe, just maybe, the whole mess might have actually been a good idea.

Either way, as the last of the participants get their turn to charitably spoon a fellow student, three and a half hours in, Louis would consider the _Spooning Soiree_ a success. It was a day full of love, support, and acceptance that he got to share with all of his favourite people, and he wouldn’t have changed it for the world.

That, until a different voice projects across the lawn.

“Ladies, Gentlemen, Ladylike Gentlemen, Gentlemanly Ladies, and anything in between!” A voice roars, and if Louis was unsure before, he’s sure now—when it comes to Amy, height is just a number, “May I have your attention!”

The music lowers, the crowd quiets, the last spoonee slides out from the arms of her spooner—the entirety of the fundraiser seems to come to a halt before her. Including Zayn, Liam, and Niall, as they produce themselves on either side of Louis.

“ _How_ does she do that?” Zayn gawks, earning a laugh from both Niall and Liam.

Louis laughs too, his eyes never leaving Amy, “A mystery… we may never know how she commands a room.”

Amy looks around the lawn in content, a prideful glow in her eyes as she holds the megaphone up to her mouth, “It’s come time to announce our Prime Spoonees, chosen by…” she spins on her heels, gesturing toward the spooning stations, “…our very own spooners! Let’s give them a round of applause!”

The crowd does exactly as they’re told, filling the pause with a lively round of cheering. Louis looks toward the stations, toward Harry, as the five of them stand on their dorm beds proudly. They’re smiling and bowing, bedheads and all, waving to the crowds like bloody British royalty, and as Zayn facepalms long into next year, Louis has never laughed harder in his life.

Amy notices this too, “Okay hotshots, we must admit that this afternoon would have been nothing without the unwavering support of our fellow students. So, lets have a hand for you lot!”

She spins back toward the crowd, throwing her arms up in the air in triumph, “That’s you! And you! And, that’s right— _you_! Anyone who gave up a little of their time today, please know that your contribution will work toward making this campus a safer place for all.”

And as Louis makes eye contact with Harry from across the lawn, the same prideful look dancing in his eyes, the crowd erupts in the loudest cheer of all.

☆

Louis unlatches the door to Harry’s dorm. Harry is about ten steps behind him, seeing off the last of his GSA mates for the night.

“Jordan,” Harry begins modestly, but Jordan shakes his head, pointing his index finger into Harry’s chest, “ _No_ —this is an annual thing now, I hope you realize that, Styles.”

Louis laughs a little as he hunches over the keys, because _Spooning Soiree_ _Founder_ might’ve just become Harry’s legacy.

“Seriously though, mate. I haven’t had this much fun in years.” another adds. A moment passes. In the silence, Louis can picture the humble smile growing on Harry’s face.

“Thanks for making it fun.” Harry says.

“Right on.” The final one agrees, placing a hand against Harry’s bicep before they all begin walking toward the lifts. Louis turns back toward Harry a moment later, expecting the boy to join him in entering the dorm, but the three blokes aren’t done, they’re shouting to Harry until the very last second they’re in sight, their voices echoed and euphoric.

“Any other ideas come your way, you let us know!”

“Luci better watch her back, event coordinator!”

“Night, Styles!”

And right as the lift’s door shuts, Jordan leans forward and calls goodnight to Louis, too.

The hallway goes silent. Louis scoffs loudly, pushing the door open with his knee, “You know…” he comments, “I really didn’t want to have to say it…”

Harry turns toward him, the smile already on his face as he jogs down the remaining stretch of hallway, and “Say what?” he asks, taking the keys from Louis’ hands.

He puts his palm on the door next, opening it wide enough for Louis to enter. Louis does. Harry follows suit. And, spinning on his heels in the center of the dorm, which had kindly been refurnished by a few participants earlier in the day, “Today was incredible.” Louis admits.

Harry stops in place, still sporting a bedhead and windblown skin. He takes a long look at Louis. The door shuts lightly behind him, engulfing them in near darkness, but Louis can still see the boy’s face.

He looks seconds away from _crying_.

“Shit, what—” Louis begins, flicking on a lamp, but Harry’s already speaking, tears welling in his eyes, “You think so?” he asks.

It takes Louis a second to remember what he’s talking about. But when he does, “Yes. Of course, I do.” Louis says, almost confusedly, because it’s weird—having seen nothing but confidence and enthusiasm from the boy all day, his furrowed eyebrows and down-turned lips don’t suit him at all. He’s the boy from the record store all over again.

Louis takes a step forward. He also takes the boy’s hands. He runs his thumb over the boy’s skin as they stand in silence, and Louis doesn’t say anything either, he merely waits until Harry looks up. 

When Harry does, the boy’s _laughing_ , tears running down his rose-coloured cheeks as he inhales and exhales sharply, and you could say Louis is taken off guard.

“ _Shit_ , do you really?” Harry blubbers on, “I was so _worried_ about it but everyone came out and had fun and we raised so much and…” he’s rambling a mile a minute, his cheeks soaked with tears and his hands shaking in Louis’, “…I’m just so happy and thankful and proud of everyone, and _you_ , I’m proud of you, and I don’t…”

Harry only stops when Louis begins to cry too. Tossing his head back and laughing hysterically, “Oh my _god_ ,” Louis manages, blinking back his tears, “Did we really just pull of a _Spooning_ fundraiser?”

Because they’re absolutely stood in the center of Harry’s dorm, crying and holding hands, cracked rainbow paint still smeared on their reddened cheeks, smelling like afternoon air and strangers, and Louis has never felt prouder in his entire life.

Louis looks back down then, his tears having finally subsided, and he’s actually stumped by what he sees. The boy’s rubbing his tears away—red eyes, watery smile, runny nose, and all—but he looks even more beautiful than Louis thought possible.

So Louis budges up and kisses him, sliding his hands out of Harry’s and planting them on his neck, pulling his face toward him. And Harry kisses him back, he really does, in between broken words and bouts of laughter, sniffling and crying, until neither of them can take it any longer.

Harry wraps his arms around Louis’ chest instead. And then they’re hugging, Harry ducking his head into Louis’ neck as he squeezes, and Louis can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. 

“I think we did.” Harry mumbles into his skin.


	11. Chapter Eleven

It all comes down to this.

Feet smacking the grass, breath falling and crashing into his chest—it’s the first day of the winter break before finals and he’s panting, _heaving_ the air in and out of his burning lungs, his heartbeat roaring in his ears. With coursework and exam revision merely a passing thought, the space between him and the goal posts grows smaller and smaller and _smaller_ , until he digs his shoe into the curve of the ball and—

 _Goal_.

Harry leaps forward hastily, tripping over his own feet, but it was hopeless the second the ball left the frozen earth. It’s careening into the back of the net before he can stop it.

 _Goal_.

“No!”

_Goal!_

“Yes!” Louis screams into the December air, spiking his gloves into the ground, falling face first into the grass, “ _Yes_! I won! I _actually_ won!”

“Oh my…” Harry’s just as shocked, his body unmoving under the starlight, “You _actually_ did.”

Louis continues to laugh loudly, rolling onto his back as a new pain blooms in his hip, “Who said I was only gifted in virtual footie? Huh?” and he’s still laughing, clapping and pointing toward the clouded sky.

Harry collapses next to him. Louis lets his hands fall. They puff air in and out of their chests.

When Louis finally looks over at Harry, the boy’s face is tucked into the crease of his elbow, the curve of his arm making his expression completely unreadable. Louis likes to think that the art of reading someone’s face is a skill he happens to possess. But now, Louis beginning to think that maybe he’d just been lucky, just _guessing_ he reckons, because he honestly can’t tell whether Harry’s about laugh so hard he cries, or just cry in general, and that’s a little scary.

So Louis pauses for a few moments, and then a few more, deciding if he should take the piss or not.

Louis takes the piss, obviously. “Oh, love,” He coos, rolling onto his side and propping up his head on his palm. It smells like dirt and it’s icy against his burning skin, but he isn’t fazed, really, how could he be? “Please don’t tell me our little Harry has shed a tear in defeat?” He doesn’t even try to hide his smirk. He probably won’t try to hide it for the next few days, either.

“I couldn’t focus, _love,_ ” Harry mocks, finally turning his face toward Louis, and he’s absolutely forcing away a smile, “I have important stuff stuck in my brain right now.”

Louis rolls onto his back. His tone is as condescending as ever when he scoffs, “What, Christmas shopping?”

“No.”

“Then, what? Admit what we already know, Styles.”

When Louis hears no response, he turns back toward the boy. He’s scowling now, tilting his chin a little as if to challenge Louis, but he cracks not even a second later.

Harry’s practically beaming, “Never.” he whispers.

Louis’ beaming too. They laugh in unison. Reflections of the moon dance in their eyes.

A moment passes.

And, “Is there really important stuff stuck in there?” Louis asks, earnestly.

Harry shuts his eyes, his smile fading into the shadows on his face.

They stay like that for a while, just inhaling and exhaling frozen breath under the dim moonlight, until Louis nearly forgets where he is entirely, his question long forgotten.

It’s at times like this, when Louis’ been around Harry for so long that he starts to lose touch with reality, that he nearly forgets what life was like without him. Because it’s warm and familiar and peaceful, and maybe Louis would like to live in this feeling forever.

Louis is nearly asleep when he hears the boy’s voice again.

“Okay,” Harry begins, planting his elbows into the frost covered grass to prop his torso up, and “My massive creative writing assignment, y’know, the thing I have been working on for a while now?” he whispers, like it’s a secret, and Louis shivers as he nods, “Well… I think I’m getting stuck.”

Louis hums for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek. His hip is still throbbing. “That’s not due yet? I feel like that baby’s been cooking for way longer than nine months now.” He comments seriously, and Harry scoffs at him like he’s just told the best punch line he’s ever heard.

“It’s due by the thirtieth,” He pauses, blinking, “ _Cooking_? Do you even know how pregnancy works?”

“I’m gay.”

“So am I, but I definitely know there’s no _cooking_ involved.”

Louis flops onto his back. “Okay, okay, _fine_ ,” He waves off the boy’s bellowing laughter, before asking, “What d’you got so far?” and then flicking the boy’s flushed nose for emphasis.

Harry lets out a final chuckle, his breath warm and soothing on Louis’ frozen fingers. Louis really shouldn’t have thrown his gloves in triumph.

“Right, well,” Harry’s still grinning though, long after he lies back down on the grass and crosses his arms under his head, “So, it’s totally up to us. Like, there aren’t any rules besides _no plagiarism_ and the due date, which—”

“Is nice.”

“—is the problem.” Harry finishes.

Louis scoffs lightly, and “Oh, I doubt that.” he says, finally pulling his eyes away from the boy’s pink lips. Harry’s looking at the moon, wide-eyed and blinking slowly, and Louis swears his eyes are glowing. Louis stares at him for a moment longer. There isn’t a thing he’ll be able to forget about the boy.

Still, “You doubt _me_?” Harry says finally, pulling Louis back, “Not true. You doubt Niall.”

Louis laughs into the back of his hand. He doesn’t correct him. “You got notes somewhere? Drafts, maybe?”

Harry sits up so quickly _Louis_ ’ head spins, watching the boy loop his right shoe under the strap of his bag. Kicking up, he tosses the bag into his lap like some sort of coordinated athlete and all Louis can do is snicker.

“What’s this? Should’ve used those skills before I beat your arse.” Louis likes that Harry’s allowing him to berate him like this. It’s the least he can do for the month-and-a-half-long loser (and one-time drawer).

“Again, I was _distracted_ …” Harry’s hands fly through the contents of the bag, the sound of rustling papers and clicking pens and crinkly sweet wrappers filling the space between them. Louis watches with his chin tucked into his jacket, his smile growing wider and wider as Harry’s head tilts from side to side, angling the bag towards the moonlight, until he finds what he’s looking for.

Or at least Louis thought he did, before “Wait, that’s not it… it’s somewhere in here…” he freezes and grins timidly down at his lap, “Hold on.”

“Let me know when you find it,” Louis jests, reaching into his pocket and fishing out mobile, the screen is freezing under his fingertips, “That, if you ever do—”

His own mobile interrupts him, the screen fading to black as it’s taken over by an incoming call. Louis squints at the screen for a second, his eyes adjusting in the dim light, until he makes out who’s ringing him.

He glosses over her name. Twice.

But his mobile is also silenced, he forgot to turn the ringer back on it after class, and that means he’s the only one who notices it. Staring wordlessly at the screen as it flashes in his hands, Louis barely hears the boy’s voice from beside him.

“Got it.” Harry declares obliviously, chucking his bag to the side, and Louis doesn’t even hesitate before pocketing his mobile.

And, “Hm?” Louis hums as he recovers, pressing his cheek to the boy’s upper arm.

Harry leans into the touch, turning the notebook over in his hands, “Everything I have so far is in here.” he explains to Louis’ forehead, planting a small kiss to his skin.

Louis’ eyes trail the boy’s fingers as he unfastens the small leather straps. They’re embracing the book just like his hands, taut and snug, holding the pages and wandering sticky notes inside, and suddenly Louis’ mind slips into slow motion. 

It feels like hours pass as he flips though the pages and pages of messy black ink, lip pulled between his teeth as he attempts to pinpoint the proper one. His eyes snap up after every page comes down, an endless flow of black and beige, until finally he stops. 

“Ah, see. No plagiarism and the due date.” Harry points out proudly.

Louis blinks away the fog, and yes, there it is—centered and bold and underlines three times, sitting at the top of the thin page as if he would forget. Louis chuckles, his cheek budging up and down the fabric of the boy’s jacket. They stare at the page for a moment longer. Harry doesn’t seem to see anything wrong with this picture.

“So,” Louis’ eyes run up and down the empty beige sheet and onto the one beside it, equally as barren. Surely, with all of the _full_ pages the boy just flipped past, there must be a few set aside for his assignment. “Are you gonna flip to your drafts, or?”

Another moment passes.

Harry slowly closes the notebook. “I told you I got stuck.” He says, quietly.

Louis’ so smitten that he almost stifles his laughter.

 _Almost_. “Are you serious?” Louis sits up straight, gasping when the boy nods disappointingly, “ _Shit_ , you never mentioned it! I had no idea.”

“I was making progress _,_ at least I _thought_ I was,” Harry releases a frustrated sound, wrapping the notebook’s leather straps around his index finger, “But then it was all wrong. It’s like, I wasn’t writing anything meaningful, I just was writing to meet a word count.”

“And what’s the word count?”

“Eight thousand.”

Louis falls back toward the earth. “Shit,” He breathes, chucking his arm over his eyes, “I don’t think I’ve even _said_ that many words.”

Louis waits for Harry to fall back beside him, to laugh as he says something like _you definitely have_ , but it doesn’t happen. Harry remains sitting up, his back arched over somberly, not even offering up the slightest chuckle. Louis is beginning to lose him to the halo of moonlight.

Louis removes his arm, and then places his hand on the back of Harry’s coat.

“Come here.” Louis exhales.

The boy does, clambering down beside Louis. The earth is cold beneath their backs.

And, “You’ve still got time, plenty of it,” Louis begins again, staring up at the dark sky, “You just need to switch gears. Don’t think about this final as an assignment, think of it as a personal project. Don’t write for requirements, write for yourself.”

Slowly, Harry interlocks their hands at his thigh. When Louis continues, his eyes are already shut, relishing in the warmth of Harry’s palm.

“Find something you can write for hours about and hold onto it.”

Harry squeezes his hand, shifting his hips as he finally settles.

☆

It’s only when Louis has called out goodnight to Zayn and crawled into bed that his mobile buzzes in his hand.

**From: Haz**

**1:46 AM**

_l_ _ou I already have three pages done! x x x_

Louis shakes his head amicably, unable to stop the chuckle that escapes his lips. He stares at his mobile for a minute longer, before typing his response through the glare of his hazy eyes.

**From: Lou**

**1:47 AM**

_where would you be without me?_

He replies nearly an hour later, when Louis’ fast asleep with his mobile on his chest.

**From: Haz**

**2:36 AM**

_don’t even wanna think about it.xx_

☆

“Okay! Turn around!”

Louis revs the engine instead, propelling himself further down the dirt road. Even with a helmet on, Louis can hear the gravel crunching beneath the tires, see the trees rushing by in a blur of greys and browns, feel the engine roaring between his legs.

Zayn’s voice is merely a distant memory.

“Come back! _Louis_!”

Louis revs the engine again, the December wind biting at his collar, and he feels weightless, limitless, like nothing can stop him, like he’ll drive straight into the horizon without looking back.

The end of the road comes first.

Louis eases up on the throttle, relaxing his grip and leaning backward. The air is returning to his lungs now, quick and full, and with a backwards glance, Louis nearly laughs. He can’t hear him, but he can see that Zayn is still yelling as he stands in the middle of the road, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

“I know, I know!” Louis shouts upon a smile, the wind muffling his voice a little, as he steers the motorcycle around. This time, he drives at a respectable pace, closing the distance between himself and his best mate.

The evening sun is casting shadows through the fence posts when Louis comes to a halt in front of Zayn. He removes his helmet— _Zayn’s_ helmet—and places it in his lap, before meeting the boy’s gaze.

Zayn’s face is golden. Both figuratively and literally.

“I say you can her for a spin… and you do _that_?” Zayn gawks.

Louis nods unabashedly, shrugging.

A moment passes.

Zayn takes a step forward, “Get up,” he orders, reaching for Louis’ shoulder, like he’s actually going to rip Louis from the motorcycle if he doesn’t comply, and “Okay! Okay!” Louis squeals, worming out of the boy’s grasp and sliding off the seat. He lands on the gravel with a thump, still laughing as he straightens out his coat, “You know I’d never hurt her, right?”

Zayn knocks down the kickstand. He dusts off the motorcycle’s hubcap with his sleeve, blowing the dirt from the headlight before wiping off the seat, “It’s not her I’m worried about.” he murmurs.

A gust of wind ruffles up Louis’ fringe, and for a moment, Louis swears he just heard sincerity in his best mate’s voice. Louis covers his mouth with a gloved hand, “You…” Louis begins, causing the boy’s head to turn his way, “You were worried about me?”

Zayn blinks. Then, he pops open the seat compartment without breaking eye contact. The smell of marijuana hits Louis instantly.

And, “Oh my _god_ ,” Louis exhales, dropping his hand from his face. He takes a look around, fields and trees stretch as far as the eye can see in every direction, “You were worried about me driving away with your pot?”

“Priorities.” Zayn says, finally flashing Louis a smile. He fishes a joint out from under a tin lid.

Louis shuts his eyes then, laughing into the space between them as he butts up against the fence. Both the wood and the December air are bitterly cold on his skin, but the second he hears the sound of butane, he suddenly feels warmth rush his body.

Inhaling. Crackling. Exhaling.

With his hands shoved in his pockets, the world seems to slow a little, and he hasn’t even taken a hit yet. But then Louis feels Zayn’s hand against his bicep, and he opens his eyes, taking the joint in between his fingers.

It’s gotten darker outside since the last time he looked around. Louis takes the paper to his mouth and inhales. As the smoke fills his lungs, the taste reminds him of being a teenager, of running out on nights just like this, of Zayn by his side then like he is now. Louis doesn’t smoke often, never without Zayn, but the feeling rushing through his body right now might be making him question that.

A moment passes. The joint burns in between them. Louis breaks the silence.

“Want to hear something funny?” He asks.

Zayn’s joined him now, leaning against the fence. “Humour me.”

“Until Halloween, Harry thought _we_ were dating.”

Zayn must already be stoned, because he barely reacts. He merely coughs a little, but Louis’ thinking it’s unrelated.

So, “Did you hear what I said?” Louis tries.

“Mhm.”

“And?”

Zayn shrugs, taking another hit, “I wonder why we never did.”

That’s not what Louis was expecting to hear. A laughing fit, a cough attack, a piss take, a dropped joint— _anything_ , anything else would’ve been more in the realm of Louis’ expectations. Not _this_ , not a life altering, inebriated confession.

Louis inhales uncertainly. He opens his mouth. He closes it.

He opens it again, “Did you ever…”

“Like you?” Zayn’s getting right to the point, it seems. Louis’ pretending like he didn’t already know that, it seems.

Louis merely looks his way, waiting for him to take over. Zayn is looking off into the wall of trees though, taking a moment before meeting Louis’ gaze. And when he does, he breaks into a smile.

“No,” Zayn scoffs loudly, and _that’s_ what Louis was expecting, just ten terrifying seconds too late _,_ “And I take it you didn’t either.”

He’s right. They’ve been best mates for fifteen years and never once has Louis ever had feelings for him. Other than feelings of anger, spite, disgust, and annoyance, of course.

They’re family.

“Never did.” Louis admits finally, fighting off the rush of memories between himself and the boy. All the late nights and early mornings, all the affectionate touches and kind words—toddlers to young adults, Louis was there for Zayn when no one else was, and Zayn was there for Louis in ways no one else could—until suddenly, the same question pops into his head as well.

Why didn’t they?

“This is getting me,” Louis blurts next, and when Zayn passes the joint to him, he inhales deeply, “Everything was there for us,” he croaks before exhaling, a small puff of smoke filling the space between them, “Why didn’t we?”

Zayn follows the smoke with his eyes, until they’re both staring at the expanse above them. The sky is dark and swirling, the moon hidden behind the clouds, all heavy with rain.

A moment passes. Louis takes another hit. Maybe pot and self-reflections don’t mix.

Then, “I think we had a purpose in each other’s lives from the beginning,” Zayn mumbles, his voice is quiet and calm as it rolls over to Louis, “All of this is just part of that.”

Louis shuts his eyes. “So, dating… off the table?”

He’s kidding and Zayn knows it, scoffing as he places his hand on top of Louis’. Thunder rumbles a long way away, but neither of them moves.

“Sadly, I think we’ve got other people who are meant for that.” Zayn says.

As Louis closes his fingers around his, a familiar face pops into his head—a face that he’ll never forget.

Maybe Zayn’s right.

☆

It’s the second last rehearsal before the show, the twenty-second of December, and Louis might just be losing his mind.

_No, I think not…_

_It’s never to become…_

_For I am not the one…_

The room seems to silence around Millie, the bustling cast and crew merely background noise to her final note. When her voice finally stops echoing around the room, she looks up at Louis through heavy eyelids, clutching her chest with longing arms, and… it’s a _perfect_ display of woe.

Louis loses his mind.

Because in the silence, all Louis can think about is how close they are to the show. Or how far they are from the first rehearsal. He can’t help the looming feeling that something may go wrong, that there may not be enough time to get everything done, or even worse—if everything goes to plan, this could be the best production the university’s ever put on.

And then Millie breaks character, her eyes crinkling at the edges as she grins, and all Louis can think about is how great her rehearsal just was.

Because it was great.

And it will be great—on Christmas.

Louis stands to his feet, and “Brilliant!” he gives a quick nod to the audio technician, who cuts the track from behind the sound room’s tinted windows, “Good work everyone. See you back Wednesday for a tech run!”

To a small chorus of clapping, Millie hops upright and rushes off stage, into the arms of her giggling castmates. Louis turns back toward his seat. He’s halfway through gathering his notes when he stops entirely. There’s familiar voice carrying across the theatre.

Louis spots him immediately, he always does, where he’s speaking to a stagehand beside the sound room.

“Oi!” Louis calls out excitedly, “I thought you weren’t coming by today!”

Harry looks up right away, windblown and rosier than usual, before spinning on his heels and heading straight for the door.

“Haz!” Louis is laughing as he tucks his notes into his back pocket, because he _loves_ this, he knows the boy’s taking the piss, “ _Harry_ , you idiot!” that, until Harry darts behind a backdrop.

Louis stops laughing. A few stagehands raise their eyebrows at him. Louis swallows.

And, “I’m sorry?” Louis announces to in one in particular, closing the distance between himself and the stack of set pieces against the wall, “Did you just dart behind a graveyard scene at the sight of me?”

Harry barely has the time to respond before Louis’ ducking his head behind the canvas, meeting his gaze instantly. There’s barely three feet between them, Harry’s face shadowy and obscure, but Louis can still make out the lines of his features. 

Then, he speaks. 

“I didn’t dart. I sidestepped hastily.”

Louis blinks.

It takes all of two seconds for the boy to burst into laughter.

Okay, so the roles have reversed, “Right,” Louis scoffs, failing to force away his smile as the last of the boy’s giggles ring out, “Might I ask why you _sidestepped hastily_?”

Harry wipes a tear from the corner of his eye, popping upright, “Oh, it’s…” he clears his throat, suddenly serious, “No reason.”

Louis’ eyes flick toward the canvas backdrop and back.

“No reason?”

Harry shakes his head.

A moment passes.

And if Harry really thought Louis would give up that easy, he must not know Louis at all.

“Oh, okay,” Louis says conversationally, as he takes a step closer to Harry, their bodies hidden from the room behind the sheet of canvas, “Well, then,” he crowds Harry’s space in seconds, his hands flat on the boy’s chest, “How’s the assignment coming?”

Harry blinks. He’s looking down at Louis with widening eyes, “Assignment? Oh, right, good,” he exhales slowly, before nodding to himself like he’s fact-checking, “Yeah, it’s been good.”

“Really good,” Louis echoes, never once looking up from Harry’s lips, as the boy’s back connects with the wall behind him, “I mean, it must be. You told me you weren’t coming by today.”

Harry blinks again. Louis can feel his heartbeat quickening under his palms.

“Right,” Harry mumbles hotly, “I just needed a break.”

Louis opens his mouth to respond, inches away from Harry’s face, before quickly deciding against it. Instead, he leans into Harry, pressing his lips to his ear, whispering, “What’s with all the running?”

Harry actually shakes. And with a waver in his voice, he presses his cheek against Louis’, “I can’t tell you.”

Louis exhales. “Yes, you can.”

“I can’t…”

Louis begins kissing his neck then, because well, he’s not above it and might just be working.

“I’ve…”

“Yeah, Haz?”

Harry lets his arms go limp, breathing, “It’s…” before freezing entirely, “ _Shit_ —it’s Aaron.”

Louis pulls back in an instant. With his mouth still wet from kisses, the mental image of his bright-eyed lead is definitely _not_ what he wanted at this very moment.

Then, “Oh, _god_. Wow,” There’s a familiar panic in the voice that comes next, one that Louis knows all too well, “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—”

Louis’ spins on his heels immediately, nearly tumbling into the canvas backdrop, “ _Shit_ , Aaron, oh my god—” he catches himself, before finally making eye contact with their intruder.

Aaron’s blue eyes are wider than Harry’s. There’s still black face paint on his lashes, “I’m sorry, I was looking for you, and Andy said you went this way,” Aaron begins, staring directly at his shoes as he points off at nothing, “Right, I’m going to…”

“ _No_ , wait, don’t,” Louis runs a hand over his mouth, and of course, Harry’s doing the same thing, they don’t dare make eye contact, “ _I’m_ sorry. Wow, that was unprofessional.”

Aaron stops in place, his eyes bouncing back and forth between them, “No, it’s okay,” and he’s absolutely _smiling_ , slowly at first, “I’m going to wait by the stage, so uh…” before he’s staring at the ground again, this time to force away a proper grin, “I’ll be there.”

“Right,” Louis comments lamely, waving off the boy as he disappears in front of the backdrop, “I’ll be there too!”

A moment passes.

Harry all but collapses into Louis’ back, “Oh my god,” he grips the fabric of Louis’ shirt, “Lou, that was humiliating.”

Louis turns into his touch, swatting at his chest, “What, for _you_?” he can’t help the laugh that escapes his mouth, the smile tugging at his lips, “I’m the one who’s supposed to be professional!”

Harry looks up then, his eyebrows curving upward, _pitifully_ , “Lou, I hate to break it to you, but—”

Louis kisses him then, one part passion and three parts suppression, his hand returning to the skin of the boy’s neck. Harry kisses him back, and Louis holds onto him for a moment longer before pulling away.

He begins toward the stage, but not before turning to push a finger into the boy’s chest.

“I’m going to figure out what you’re hiding,” He declares, “You just wait.”

☆

“Odd, how?”

“Like, just…” The lift’s button lights up under Louis’ fingertip, providing him the smallest bit of warmth after his trek through the biting cold, “Giggly. Rosy. Dodging your questions, more than usual, anyway. Just, acting odd.”

There’s a considerable pause on the other side of the line. One that has Louis backtracking almost immediately, releasing his lip from his teeth.

“Hey, don’t wear yourself out trying to—”

“Huh?”

“—retrace your…” Louis stops himself there. He swallows. “Were you even listening?”

“You lost me after _rosy_.”

The lifts doors open to reveal a cloudy late-afternoon sky. Louis steps through the doorway, hiking his bag further up his shoulder as he sighs, loudly, “Just answer me this. Do you know what’s going on with Harry?”

Niall actually seems to contemplate this. He clears his throat multiple times before finally offering up a simple, earnest response.

“Nope.”

Louis sighs again, but this time in acceptance. Don’t get Louis wrong, after having spent fifteen years with Zayn, he _knows_ when someone is bullshitting him. This is different, though. Louis believes him. Niall doesn’t have the energy to keep a secret.

“Right, okay,” Louis rounds the corner to his hallway, there’s honking coming from the street beside the flat complex, “Thanks, anyway.”

“Anytime. Wanna come by later?” Niall’s voice is muffled by a particularly sharp gust of wind.

Louis shoves his keys into his door, sandwiching his mobile between his cheek and shoulder. He takes a quick look backward, toward the freezing trek he’d just conquered, and shudders at the thought of it.

“Wanna come _here_ later?”

Niall laughs loudly into the receiver, Louis can picture his smile, “Can Cass come, too? Might make it worth the trip.”

The door unlatches with a crisp pop, and “She lives close?” Louis switches his mobile to the other ear.

“Right off Ambler.”

“I’ll be waiting.” Louis finishes cheekily, toeing off his shoes as the blond laughs again.

“Right on,” A silence takes over them, and Louis’ nearly hung up by the time the Niall speaks again, “Shit, did you catch the match yesterday?”

Louis’d have to be dead not to, “That _corner_ , don’t get me started,” he shuts the door shut behind himself, narrowly avoiding the foyer table, “That cost them the game.”

Passing by the mouth of the staircase, it’s then that Louis hears it.

“Fuck, I know. It’s like they gave up—”

“Stop,” Louis interrupts, stopping in his tracks. He puts a hand to the receiver as the sounds continue— _voices, laughing, music—_ coming from somewhere in the flat, the living room maybe, “Niall, uh, can I ring you back?”

“Yeah? What’s—”

Louis lowers his mobile from his ear, fear beginning to bloom in his stomach. Louis’ sure that Zayn’s in class right now—why _else_ would he be ignoring Louis’ texts—and he can’t say he remembers renting out their living room to a lonely passerby, so that leaves only one option.

This is the end.

Against all better judgment, Louis steps into the living room and cranes his neck to see over the back of the sofa. He stretches up to his tiptoes, hand over his mouth, until miraculously, he spots something familiar.

Just beyond the cushions, there’s a perfectly styled quiff.

“Oh my god,” Louis deflates immediately, letting his bag fall to the ground in a harsh thump as he quite literally falls into the room, “You scared the shit out of me, Z.”

And it seems that Zayn’s not done yet, as the boy’s head darts backward, revealing another body attached to his side.

“Oh, fuck,” Louis nearly jumps out of his skin for a second time, griping the back of the sofa, “ _Liam_ , hey. Sorry, I had no idea you two would be here.”

Both boys are now looking at Louis, merely blinking at him. They’re sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, cross-legged with a laptop between them, both their chests rising and falling in time with Louis’. Zayn extends a hand, slowly closing the computer screen. 

It’s then that Louis realizes he’s the only one speaking.

“What’s… uh,” Louis begins, his eyes flicking back and forth between the two boys, “What’s up?”

Zayn shrugs nonchalantly. “Just hanging out.”

Louis nods, laughing lightly, uncomfortably, “Right,” he looks at the foyer for a split second before looking back at his best mate, “Don’t you have sound fundamentals right now?”

“Got canceled.”

“Oh, well, I texted you.”

“Oh?” Zayn scoops up his mobile from the hardwood, turning it on for a total of two seconds before tossing it back down, and Louis’ sure there isn’t a single notification on his lock screen, “Right, you did. I didn’t see it.”

Louis pauses. Zayn blinks. Liam recovers.

“So, Louis, d’you have a good day?” Liam asks politely, angling his torso toward Louis.

Louis pushes off the sofa, “Yeah, pretty normal,” he recaps the day in his mind—Arch, meeting with Emilie, Arch again, rehearsals, _scarring Aaron_ —Louis almost cries, “Shit, I totally scarred Aaron today.”

Zayn begins to laugh, familiarity returning to his tone, “Peterson? What did you do to him?”

Louis’ laughing too, “Harry literally _ran_ at the sight of me and wouldn’t tell me why, so I was…” it actually takes him a moment to articulate just _what_ he was doing, “…trying to get the truth out of him, behind a backdrop. Aaron came looking for me.”

Louis expects more laughter at that, _gasping_ even, definitely not the drastic change in Liam’s voice as he asks, seriously, “Well, did you?”

Louis misses the elbow Zayn gives his boyfriend, “No, Harry wouldn’t tell—” but, “We’re gonna head upstairs,” Zayn interrupts upon standing, sliding his laptop under his arm and his hand into Liam’s, “That okay?”

Louis pauses again. “Sure, go ahead.” He permits, watching them disappear through the doorway.

Louis can hear them running all the way up the stairs, bumping into walls and shushing each other as they giggle incessantly, but it’s not all the secretive childishness that Louis’ worried about.

Zayn asked permission to leave. Zayn _never_ asks permission to do anything. Ever.

Whatever it is, they’re in on it too.


	12. Chapter Twelve

It rains the morning of Christmas Eve.

Racking over the rooftop, it wakes Louis up. Surging down the windows, it keeps Louis up. He can feel the cold air radiating up from the floorboards, hear the thunder rolling in from far away, and as he stares up at the ceiling, Louis knows this should be the start of a bad day.

Whether it’s hopping up the theatre steps with a wet fringe in his eyes, seeking refuge under a tree during a footie match, or jogging toward the bus with waterlogged trainers, no good day has ever started with a downpour.

But today—today feels different. It’s merely the kind of downpour that gets Louis up, strolling aimlessly into the kitchen before the next clap of thunder.

Louis stops.

The island is clean, the television screen is black, and the sofa is undented. There are no dishes in the sink, no music coming from upstairs, and _no one_ in sight—the flat is empty.

Thunder claps.

And Louis has already moved on, “Right,” he mumbles to himself lazily, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he rounds the island, “Black or herbal…” he lets his fingers graze the top of the granite, stepping up to the electric kettle.

Louis stops again.

The electric kettle isn’t plugged in. In fact, there isn’t even any water in it at all. Louis doesn’t move on this time.

Don’t get him wrong, he knows how to fill the pot and plug it in, it’s just… every morning, without fail, Louis is the last one up. And as such, it’s been a year and a half of Zayn being long gone before Louis even rolls over, a prepped kettle waiting for him when he finally decides to wander into the kitchen.

That, until today.

Today, its cold and lifeless body lies forgotten like it was never used at all.

Louis eyes the kettle for a moment longer.

☆

“Anyway,” Louis takes another sip of his tea, the Arch logo just barely hidden behind his gloved fingers, “I’m just walking up the theatre now, give me a ring when you’re coming by.”

Letting his mobile fall from his ear, Louis makes sure he’s ended the call before what comes next, “Or don’t. It’s _fine._ ”

He’d texted Zayn too many times since he left the flat, even tried ringing his mobile a few times, but to no avail. He’s just tried Harry too, as the boy wouldn’t miss the last rehearsal for the world, but he was met with the same radio silence. Every time, no matter how many curse words or emojis Louis’d sent, he’d been left on read, his calls sent to voicemail, his pleas ignored _,_ his confusion disregarded _—_ he even shot _Niall_ a text.

Louis scoffs to himself pitifully, downing the rest of his tea. He’s jogging up the theatre’s front steps when the clouds begin to open again, yanking the door open just as the rain spots the pavement.

Maybe they’re just busy. Maybe they hate him. Maybe there’s a sale downtown. Maybe Louis is in the dark right now.

But, hold on—not metaphorically, Louis is _actually_ in the dark right now. There is a considerable lack of light in the theatre as he passes through the doorway, an eerie silence as he stops in his tracks, and as the door latches shut behind him, it only gets worse.

Louis can’t even see his hands in front of himself, and he doesn’t even know where the light switches are, let alone the cast and crew.

He feels along the wall.

“Shit, where’s the…”

The entire theatre lights up around him. 

“…light switch— _fucking hell_!”

And, “ _Surprise_!” before Louis even realizes what’s going on, there’s a flood of voices crashing into the back of his head, loud and cheerful, and Louis can’t help but whip his tea at the ground in response.

The voices start up again, “ _Happy_ —” but a familiar voice cuts them off, “ _Shit_ , wait! Oh my god, _wait_! His tea!” 

Louis spins on his heels in an instant, before throwing his forearm over his face, the light burning his eyes. He sees nothing but shadowy blurs, his chest heaving, until something brushes up against his shoulder. Louis turns, his vision finally adjusting to the light, and it’s Emilie beside him.

Louis rubs at his eyes. She ignores him completely, scooping up his empty Arch cup and then waving it in the air. “False alarm! It’s empty!”

“ _It’s_ _empty_!” The chorus of voices repeat, before another roar of laughter, and it’s then that Louis finally looks toward the source of the sound.

It’s not what he expected.

With wide grins and crinkled eyes, half in costume and half not, it’s every single face Louis’d seen walk in and out of the theatre over the last three months, standing in front of the stage with love in their eyes and their arms hanging over each other like they’ve known each other for _ages_.

Then he looks around.

Every inch of the theatre that isn’t being used for the production is covered in tacky birthday decorations. From rainbow balloons and glittery streamers, to hand drawn banners and _Happy_ _19th!_ signs, there’s confetti on the pumpkins and glitter on the tombstones and Louis knows _exactly_ who is responsible. 

Because the boy’s standing in the center of it, wearing a pink feather boa and matching glasses.

Louis covers his mouth instantly, but Harry’s already speaking, “Okay, okay!” he exclaims, tightening his arms around Niall and Aaron’s shoulders, “Let’s go again! One, two, three…”

And if Louis was at all unsure as to the point of the ambush, he definitely gets it now. 

“ _Happy Birthday_!” They crowd shouts in unison—noisemakers, party poppers, and all.

It’s the first time Louis’ thought of his nineteenth birthday in months. That’s the thing with a birthday on Christmas Eve, it’s easily forgotten in the whirlwind of other things.

They didn’t forget.

Louis lets his hands fall, mostly because they’re too wet with tears, “What… you…” he’s a blubbering wreck, a sobbing mess, he’s the bloody _guest of honour_ at his own surprise birthday party, “When did you… I had no idea…”

“Yeah, that would be the point.” A voice deadpans, and Louis spots his best mate in an instant.

Zayn’s sitting on the stage, his legs dangling in front of a banner like he couldn’t give less of shit, but Louis knows better. There’s no hiding that stupid glint in his eye when he meets his gaze, no stifling his pride when he rolls his eyes irritably, and Louis knows exactly how to respond.

Louis smiles at him. Zayn smiles back. There’s still glitter on the boy’s hands.

Louis turns back toward the crowd then, waving his arms aimlessly, “This is _crazy_ ,” he gasps, his eyes welling up all over again, “Thank you so much for this, every single one of you,” Emilie steps up to his side in encouragement, Louis feels like his chest is going to explode with adoration, “Y’know it’s hard getting old, but I think I might just enjoy nineteen.”

The cast and crew begin to clap again, seeming to agree with him, as they finally relax into the space. Louis turns toward Emilie, feeling all the attention begin to fade.

“I _hate_ you, when did you—” He starts, but Emilie’s already shoved her hand into Louis’, dragging him toward the stage. Louis doesn’t move. She nearly tumbles backward.

And, “ _Louis_ ,” she whines, the theatre beginning to buzz with background noise again, “Fine. Top secret plan for the last week and a half. Real classified shit. Now, let’s party.”

Louis shakes his head. He can’t seem to register anything but pre-show angst as he leans into her, whispering, “Do we have time for this? The show’s tomorrow and—”

“Exactly, bro!” An arm wraps around Louis’ shoulders then, a familiar voice yelling in his ear, “That gives us, what? A little over twenty-four hours to party? Is that right, Cass?”

Louis runs a hand over his face, letting Niall push him around as Cassandra appears beside them. Louis opens his mouth to protest, but then Cassandra’s flashing him the softest smile, and maybe a bit of comfort floods his chest.

Louis lets his complaint taper off. He smiles back at her instead.

And, “Okay.” Louis whispers finally.

That’s all Niall needs. “ _Okay_?” He echoes, rounding Louis’ shoulders to face him, bouncing in place, “Is that permission to party?”

Louis already laughing, “Party Permission granted.” and Niall fist bumps the air, both Cassandra and Emilie face-palming.

With his closest mates on either side of him, Louis’ nearly in a feather boa by the time he realizes that something is missing—something also in a feather boa. He stops, scanning the room in an instant. When he comes up empty-handed, he turns toward Emilie.

“Where’s Harry?” He asks her.

Emilie doesn’t stop moving though, she’s got one hand wrapped around Louis’ waist and the other pushing through the crowd. “Em,” Louis tries again, half-laughing and half-worried, her grip tightening around his stomach, “The party isn’t going anywhere, no need to—”

She stops at the first row of seats. “Sit down.”

Louis looks down for half a second. “What?”

“Sit.”

Louis blinks at her.

Emilie blinks back.

It’s all he needs.

As Louis scrambles down onto the red cushion, she grins down at him proudly. But there’s something else in her eyes, something _wicked_ , as she hoists herself into the row behind him, jumping over the seats like proper child, Louis has no idea what’s coming next.

“Enjoy the show.” She whispers, leaning back into her seat.

And, before Louis can utter another word, a piano chord is struck and a rich voice fills the room.

_The first time, ever I saw your face..._

Louis head snaps toward the stage in an instant.

The crowd has cleared to the sides now, all background noise drained from the room, as each and every person turns their attention toward the two boys center stage. With nothing but the taped up keyboard from their living room separating them, it’s Harry and Zayn looking back at Louis, and _shocked_ would be an understatement.

And it’s not like Louis’ shocked Harry is singing—on any given day, he hums more than he speaks—it’s just that he’s propped himself up on stage with nothing but a nervous lean and an accompanying piano player. It’s a proper _serenade_ , with the familiar melody, the striking lyrics, and the memories of the night they’d spent dancing to this very song.

It’s all flooding Louis’ senses at once, and to be honest, Louis can’t remember the last time he took a breath. Not to mention the way Harry is looking at him right now.

_I thought the sun rose in your eyes…_

The theatre continues to silence around the performance, until it’s only piano cords and Harry’s voice ricocheting off the walls, echoing through Louis’ chest. Louis feels like he’s engulfed in it, drifting away in waves of it, like there’s nothing in the world that can bring him ashore.

Harry’s shuts his eyes then, palm resting on his stomach, as he rolls into the next verse.

_And the moon and the stars…_

_Were the gifts you gave…_

_To the dark, and the endless skies…_

_My love…_

Louis manages to pull his attention away from Harry for a moment, stealing a quick look at Zayn—the boy’s eyes haven’t left Harry since they started. There’s an excitement in his eyes, the same excitement as the day Louis walked in on him and Aaron practicing.

_And the first time, ever I kissed your mouth…_

_I felt the earth move in my hands…_

Louis’ hand rises to cover his mouth, his shoulders slumping back as Harry follows Zayn through the high notes. Louis watches as the boy’s hand slides off his stomach, his eyes squinting shut when he strains.

_Like the trembling heart…_

_Of a captive bird…_

_That was there, at my command…_

_My love…_

Niall laughs loudly from somewhere behind Louis, and Cassandra shushes him. Louis thinks he hears Emilie and Aaron gasp too, and maybe he wants to go back there and cry with all of them, but he can’t seem to focus on anything other than the boy on stage.

_And the first time, ever I lay with you…_

_I felt your heart so close to mine…_

_And I knew our joy…_

_Would fill the earth…_

_And last, til the end of time…_

_My love…_

Zayn’s hands begin to slow, the cords becoming gentler, softer, and Louis knows the end is coming. Perhaps in more ways than one.

_The first time, ever I saw…_

Zayn holds the last cord, and Harry finally opens his eyes again. He meets Louis’ gaze instantly, taking in a shaky breath as the corners of his mouth curve upward.

_Your face…_

A moment passes.

Then, the room erupts in cheers.

“Holy shit, he’s an _angel_ ,” To be honest, Louis doesn’t even realize the song’s over until Emilie starts hitting his back excitedly, gasping, “He’s a _bloody angel_ , Louis, did you hear that shit?”

Louis feels like he _can’t move_ , let alone fangirl with her, as he stares blankly at the stage. Harry is soaking in the applause, humbly, _cheekily_ , and just to add insult to injury, he adjusts the pink feather boa around his neck when their eyes meet.

Louis wants to storm the stage and kiss the life out of him.

So he does.

“Oh my god, you _fucking_ …” Louis exhales as his chest butts up against the stage’s edge, his hands darting up to make grabby-hands at the boy, “I can’t _believe_ you!”

Harry’s face is golden under the stage lights, sidestepping around the piano’s cords, “Hold on, I’m coming down!” he throws up his hand to Louis, as if to contain his panic, before laughing loudly when Louis beings to squirm, “ _Lou_ , I’ll be right there! Hold on!”

“ _Fucking hell_ , you just…” Louis is reduced to a writhing toddler as the boy rushes offstage and out of sight, gripping onto the stage’s edge so he doesn’t fall over entirely. The crowd continues to cheer for them, Louis’ heart still beating in his ears, until the boy reappears. He’s jogging out from the darkness of the small stairwell and crowding Louis’ space in seconds.

“I’m so sorry I ignored your call.” Is the first thing Harry says, his hands rushing to wrap around Louis’ chest, and it actually takes a second for Louis to realize what he’s talking about.

And, idiot, it’s the _last_ thing in the world Louis cares about, “I hate you so much,” he exhales, gripping the back of the boy’s neck as he hugs him back, tightly, like he’ll never let go, “I hate you so much.”

Harry’s chest shakes as he laughs, and Louis presses their foreheads together, the boy’s face red with nerves, “Was it that bad?”

“Are you serious?”

“Well—” Louis doesn’t even give him the time to respond. He’s already kissing him.

And Harry is kissing him back, his hands coming up to cup Louis’ face, like there’s no one else in the room. They haven’t kissed like this since the night of the fundraiser, not properly, but Louis didn’t even think twice. Because he can feel the boy’s skin begin to slide on his cheek, his tears running in between their skin, and all he can do is laugh into the kiss.

The room continues to whoop and whistle at them, an upbeat party tune cutting through the theatre’s speaker system, and if Louis was unconvinced before, he’s sure of it now—he is absolutely living in a rom-com.

The first thing Louis sees when he pulls away is Niall.

“Bro!” The blond’s hands come down on top of Harry’s shoulders, bouncing in place excitedly, “That was mad romantic. I think I’m in love with you now.”

Louis scoffs into the back of his hand, rolling his eyes as Niall turns and utters some apology to Cassandra. She shrugs nonchalantly, glancing back and forth between Niall and Harry, and honestly, it’s everything Louis’ ever wanted.

Until he spots Zayn over Harry’s shoulder, leisurely stepping out of the stairwell with their keyboard under his arm.

Niall’s already speaking again, but Louis’ moved on, sidestepping around the group and calling out to his best mate.

“Hey! Piano Man!”

Zayn looks up immediately. They lock eyes. Zayn’s eyes flick toward the door. And, _nope_ , “I swear to god,” Louis raises a hand, a seriousness to his tone, “If you don’t get your selfless ass over here right now…”

But Zayn spares them from another one of Louis’ hollow threats, already closing the distance between them with an exasperated sigh. He’s barely placed the keyboard down before Louis’ on him, wrapping his arms around the boy’s slim torso.

Zayn stumbles backward, “Hey, easy! That’s a _relic_.”

Louis only squeezes harder, “You think I don’t know that?” before inhaling deeply, the last of his tears finally drying on the fabric of Zayn’s shirt.

Zayn inhales too. “We had some good times with that set of keys, didn’t we?”

Louis can still feel the tape under his fingertips. And his best mate’s heartbeat against his chest.

“We still are.”

“Yeah, we still are.”

☆

The doors open before them, revealing a bustling street coated in late afternoon light.

The weather isn’t too bad for late December either, merely overcast and windy—it’s the perfect conditions for a post-party group walk to Arch. After all, Zayn didn’t get his tea this morning.

“Please,” Louis gasps, tears welling in the corners of his eyes, “If you say—”

“Skype,” Zayn interrupts, “According to Romeo here, it was the most discrete way to practice. I had to make a bloody account, but he sure didn’t.”

Louis nearly trips over his own feet, cowering into Harry’s bicep, “Oh my _god_ , Harry, you didn’t.”

Harry doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t _reply_ either, merely tightening his grip on Louis hand as they pass through the doorway.

“So, _that’s_ what you were doing,” Niall gawks from behind Harry, his jaw hanging open slightly as he turns toward Cassandra, “All I could hear from his dorm was quiet music and _go up, hold it, slower, longer…_ not gonna lie, I was slightly alarmed.”

They all laugh in unison, redness rushing Harry’s cheeks when Louis covers his mouth. Louis could get used to this.

“I like Skype, it’s a good way to keep in touch,” Harry admits eventually, taking his lip in between his teeth, “But I do owe Zayn a massive thank you for—”

“Don’t mention it.” Zayn readjusts his jacket, sliding his hand into Liam’s as the door shuts behind them.

The six of them begin down the front steps, and Harry shakes his head, “No, Zayn, you really helped—”

“Like, ever again.”

Harry closes his mouth, Niall scoffs into his hand, and Liam slaps his boyfriend’s arm, all while Louis laughs harder than he ever has—harder than he _ever_ will, warmth flooding his chest like never before.

“Oh, be nice. It didn’t kill you.” Louis hears Liam say moments later, windblown and distant down the pavement, and “Oh, but it’s _going_ to,” Louis can feel his best mate’s eye roll, “I don’t know how it happened but I’m getting Skype calls from my nan.”

☆

“I still can’t believe you,” Louis slides his coat from his shoulders, he drapes it over his desk chair, “I’m sure I told you not to do anything for my birthday back in, like, _October_.”

He hears Harry shut the door behind them, and “Did you?” Harry recalls, a hint of cheekiness in his voice, the _bastard_ , “Funny, I don’t remember that.”

Louis’ bedroom is dark around them, the moonlight just barely drifting in from the window beside Louis’ bed. It’s quiet too, Zayn having gone to Liam’s to spend the night, and so much so, every one of their movements seems to be amplified. From the sound of Harry sliding off his own coat, to the floorboard creaking under both their feet, Louis is stopping before his side table lamp and flicking on a light to a chorus of small sounds.

And he’s rolling his eyes when he replies, “Oh, I _definitely_ did,” he turns his back to Harry, “We’d just split a muffin outside East, it was raining, and you were talking about this stupid novel you were reading—”

Harry actually gasps. “Oh, take it back.”

Louis doesn’t, “—and somehow we segued to my birthday,” he toes off his shoes tiredly, one hand on his windowsill for balance, “I said I never do anything, you got excited, I said _not_ to do anything, and you swore to me that you wouldn’t.”

“That was also the exact moment I decided _to_ do something.”

Louis exhales all at once, running a hand over his face amicably, “How will I ever trust you again?”

Harry merely laughs in response, as deviously as he can, because secret gift-giving is truly the worst Harry is capable of.

Louis returns his attention to his clothes. He continues to remove layers. First his jumper, then his socks, then his trousers. However sluggishly, he’s made it down to his shirt and pants by the time he notices the silence, and it’s a light one, more like the boy’s preoccupied and less like he’s ignoring him.

Louis slowly turns around.

His eyes land on Harry, as he stands beside Louis’ closet. He’s turned away from Louis, inspecting the pictures taped to the wall, tiny pinpoint mementos of a Louis closest to the one he knows. He leaning into the pictures, touching the glossy ink, like he’s completely forgotten Louis is even there.

It couldn’t have worked out better if Louis’d written it himself.

Taking advantage of the moment, Louis reaches into his side table drawer and fishes out the rectangular plastic box. He steps up behind Harry, his hands behind his back, and then rests his cheek against Harry’s bicep.

Harry’s the first to speak, “I love these, you know,” he begins, pointing to picture of Louis and Zayn from at least five years ago, pulling silly faces in a gymnasium, “You lot were proper nerds.”

Louis pulls his body backward instantly, hands falling to his sides, “Excuse me?” he gawks as Harry laughs, loud and unabashed. And to think Louis was _about_ to present him with his Christmas gift, “We were cool. _Really_ _cool_.”

“Yeah,” Harry amuses, the air returning to his lungs as he traces the edge of the picture, “I bet you were.”

 _Right,_ so maybe they weren’t. Maybe they were theatre nerds who only had each other for friends, who lived to stay in but would agree to go out only if they knew the other would be there, who were better friends with the school staff than their peers.

And _maybe_ Louis halfway to re-gifting the present to himself when Harry finally turns around. And, like the boy’s completely blind to the box in Louis’ hands, he’s already speaking, never once looking down.

“I have something for you.” He says.

Louis freezes.

He’s inches away from Louis’ face, the shadow of Louis’ head just barely reaching up to his nose. Louis quickly pockets his gift.

“Are you serious?” Louis shuts his eyes, exhaling deeply, “You bloody _serenaded_ —”

“Stay put.”

In an instant, Harry’s presence disappears entirely. There’s no warmth, no weight on the hardwood, no breaths matching Louis’—just like that, he’s gone and Louis is left standing in the silence of his bedroom.

Louis pops one eye open. The room is darker than he remembers. Harry’s nowhere to be seen.

Louis does everything but stay put.

“Harry?” He bounds through the doorway and into the hall, scanning down either direction. Only a few seconds go by as he stands in place, the darkness making the hallway look longer, until he turns his attention toward the stairs.

He’s made it halfway down the staircase when Harry appears at its base.

Louis stops.

It takes a second for his eyes to adjust, but when they do, his eyes widen instantly. Because, Harry’s got something in his hands—something big and wrapped.

“I said…” Harry begins slowly, “I said, _stay put_.”

“And I said no birthday party, but here we are.”

Another moment passes.

Then Harry is laughing, loud and echoed, as he rests his gift on the step in front of him. He’s got a hand on his hip as he bellows, and Louis’ laughing too, jogging down the rest of the stairs until he’s face to face with Harry again.

“What did you…” Louis narrowly misses the present, sidestepping around it, because it’s _massive_ , at least ten times the size of his gift, adorned with a gold bow and striped wrapping paper, “Where did you even _put_ this?” Louis exhales.

White lines of moonlight are scattered on the hardwood below their feet. Harry shrugs. “Pantry. I gave it to Zayn and he hid it for me.”

Louis looks up, shaking his head. “Was I a part of _anything_ this week?”

The boy’s entire face lights up then, pride dancing across his features. If Louis felt exasperated before, he’s feels _outwitted_ now. Harry’s all about finding weird loopholes to act selflessly, Louis really should’ve known.

Harry’s never looked more excited in his _life_ and Louis hasn’t even opened the damn gift yet.

So Louis takes a seat on the step. Harry follows. And, “You said you didn’t want anything for your birthday,” the boy begins cheekily, slowly sliding the present onto his lap as Louis watches, “So this one’s for Christmas.”

Louis doesn’t say anything. Mostly because he’s sure it’s going to be something mean.

Until, “Open it,” Harry says, the softest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I wrapped it myself.”

Louis does just that. He tears open the present in one hasty motion, balancing the weight of it on his knees, wrapping paper flying about in every direction, until he’s looking down at the unwrapped gift in his hands.

It’s a collage.

Article highlights, scribbled words, and notebook pages. Louis’ cast notes from the first rehearsal, Spooning for Equality stickers, and classic rock lyrics. A list of footie match scores written at three in the morning, a corner of one of Harry’s stupid posters that didn’t get defaced, a dried leaf from Harry’s Halloween costume. Napkins from Arch decorated in Louis’ impatient drawings, fingerprints of rainbow paint, photos of them and the Christmas musical’s crew— _all_ of it, every moment they’ve shared together so far, bound by a thin black frame.

It’s the last three months in his hands.

 _And it…_ “It looks like your wall.” Louis exhales, still and unmoving, his eyes glazing over the collage.

Harry looks down, his knuckles white on the edges of the frame, “It is. I took down everything since the fist of October and put it here.”

Louis would like to think that he rolled his eyes and scoffed, that he was _so_ _over_ the boy’s _blatant_ cheekiness and _nauseating_ sweetness that he stormed away right there and then, never to return.

Louis cries instead.

Covering his mouth like the blubbering mess he is, Louis can’t help the tears that well up in his eyes, threatening to spill down his cheeks, “You…” Louis begins, struggling to stomach the sincerity, “You put…” Louis can see the little ripped corners and the spots where the tape held on too tight, and it only makes him want to cry harder, “You put it all here.”

“Yeah,” Harry’s struggling to hold back his laugher, watery and elated, “It’s all here.”

Louis can barely see through his tears, he didn’t even think he had any _left_ , “But…” he starts as he touches the glass pane, and Harry’s still laughing, sliding toward him until his knees are knocking against Louis’, his hand wrapping around Louis’ forearm, “But there’s an empty space on your wall now.” Louis finishes.

Harry exhales, sniffling lightly, “I needed more room anyway.” he says.

Louis hates that. He hates all of this. Walking into that dorm room, he felt like he was in Harry’s heart. Looking down at the collage in his hands, Harry’s just given him a piece of it.

Louis looks up, finally making eye contact with the boy. There are tears in Harry’s eyes as well, his lips forming something just shy of a frown as doubt raids his heart, “You don’t have to hang it up or anything. I mean—”

“I hate you so much,” Louis exhales all at once, “I hate you.”

Harry actually laughs, “Why is it always _hate_ —” but Louis budges up to kiss him in an instant.

He cuts him off with his mouth, their lips slotting together like they were never made to be apart, Louis’ tears rubbing off on the boy’s cheeks. With the frame sliding onto the step, Louis crowds Harry’s space, running a hand through the back of his hair. Harry exhales lowly, his hands finding their way to Louis’ hips too, guiding Louis across the step and onto his lap without ever breaking contact.

And it’s a fervent kiss, a bruising kiss, a _god how did I ever get this lucky_ kiss, it’s Louis running out of words because the boy’s left him speechless _again_ , it’s—

It’s Harry pulling away entirely.

Louis exhales all at once, nearly moving with him, and “What?” he breathes, barely opening his eyes, bracketing himself on Harry’s shoulders, “What’s wrong?”

Harry leans forward slightly, before producing a small rectangular box in between them. It takes a considerable amount of time for Louis to lean back, and even more to look down. He blinks, dazed and lightheaded, until the familiar red wrapping paper registers in his mind.

Louis freezes.

“Your back pocket,” Harry begins backwardly, confusion dancing in his low tone, “It was in…”

“Oh my god,” Louis presses their foreheads together, sliding his hands down the boy’s neck as he laughs pitifully, his skin on fire, “Please, don’t open it.”

Harry pauses for a moment before meeting Louis’ eyes, and when he does, he’s smiling widely.

“Is this for me?”

“Unfortunately.”

He presses his lips to Louis’ then, shifting his hips a little as he mumbles, hot against Louis’ mouth, “I think I’m gonna have to open it, Lou.”

“Please,” Louis tries and fails, as the sound of wrapping paper fills the space between them, “I’m so sorry,” Louis continues to mumble, tucking his face into the boy’s neck, his knees tightening around the boy’s hips, “This is not a true reflection of who I am.”

The sound stops. A moment passes. Louis doesn’t dare lift his head. And then the boy laughs wholeheartedly.

“Stop…” Louis mumbles again, and Harry’s laughing so hard Louis nearly topples off of him, knocking down his beautiful collage in the process, but Harry doesn’t seem to care at all.

Because then he’s wrapping his arms around Louis’ torso with so much urgency Louis’ _sure_ they’re going down, and “Lou,” he exclaims, pulling them back toward the step and Louis’ head out of his neck, “I love it.”

Louis takes one look at the _tie-dye iPod case_ in the boy’s hands and immediately covers his mouth.

“Oh my _god_ , no, you don’t,” Louis’ laughing with him, tearing up again, “We never discussed Christmas gifts so I bought something small and stupid, but then you surprised me at the theatre, and I figured— _shit, this is bad, but it can’t get worse, right_?”

Harry’s eyes flick toward the beautifully sentimental collage at his side. Louis eyes shut in earnest.

“It did,” Louis whispers, “It got worse.”

It’s only when Louis feels the boy move that he opens his eyes. The iPod case now lying on top of the frame, and Harry’s is sliding out from under Louis’ lap.

He knew it. Harry is leaving him and he absolutely deserves it. Louis is practically a baby making grabby hands as he drops down onto the step, but “C’mon,” Harry breathes, outstretching his hand, his shirt off center, “I want to thank you for the gift.”

Louis peers up at Harry blankly, like his words aren’t registering in his mind, but then something flashes across Harry’s eyes, something Louis’ never seen before, and Louis knows exactly what he means.

A smile tugs at the corners of Louis’ mouth slowly, “I want to thank you for the gift too.” he whispers, and when Harry’s smiles back, he hops to his feet in an instant.

They’re wobbly and giggling, kissing up each other’s necks and bumping into walls, all the way up the stairs and into the golden light of Louis’ bedroom.

☆

“Lou,” Harry pants into his mouth, planting his forearm beside Louis’ head, “Lou, oh my god.”

Louis’ convinced it’s the only word he can say, and to be honest, Louis’ not sure he can speak right now either. Because he’s got Harry’s bare chest looming over him, their mouths connected in a mess of heat and tongue and teeth, as he pulls at the hair on Harry’s nape.

So, it’s been a good birthday so far.

And, “Shit,” Louis exhales, because with each tug, his fingers are getting more and more tangled in the strands of Harry’s hair, pulling tauter, rougher, until Harry head is yanked backwards and his neck is exposed.

And yeah, Louis takes advantage of that right away.

He attaches his lips to Harry’s neck, his skin salty and damp, and immediately begins to suck.

Harry falls forward slightly, his hips pressing against the back of his thighs, and “Please,” Louis continues to work on the tender spot, running his tongue over it again and again, “Lou _, please_.”

“What?” Louis breathes against his wet skin, one of his hands finding Harry’s bicep, he’s trembling over him, “What do you want?” he repeats.

Harry’s head falls back down, and he presses their foreheads together, “I want…” and with inches between their faces, their breaths fast and hot, Louis actually takes a moment to stare at him.

Even in the dim lighting, Louis can still pick out the angles of his face, still make out the lines and crevices he’s become so accustomed to. But now, those lines are covered in a layer of sweat, blooming with rosy tones from being touched, as he peers down at Louis all hazy and blissed-out.

 _Beautiful_ , Louis can’t help but think, _he looks really beautiful._

Slipping back into reality, Harry doesn’t finish his thought. He just opens and closes his mouth, shaking his head like he’s unable to wash away the haze, like he’s unable to articulate just what he wants.

But Louis understands anyway.

He releases Harry’s hair from his hand immediately and grabs a hold of his chest instead, digging his fingers into the spaces between Harry’s ribs.

Harry’s eyes flick downward, his brain nearly short-circuiting, “Lou, what—” but Louis’ already flipping them over, spreading Harry’s legs with his own, until their chests are pressed together again.

Harry releases a sound Louis’ never heard before, high in his throat, and Louis takes that as good sign. So he reattaches their lips, sliding a hand under Harry’s knee, until Harry’s legs bracket his hips. His ankles knot together on Louis’ lower back.

“Is this…” Louis begins in between breaths, but “ _Yes_ ,” Harry rushes, cupping Louis’ face in the heat of his palms, “Yes, Lou, _yes_.”

It’s what Louis wants too. Oh, how he loves when things work out.

Harry’s practically writhing into the mattress below him, squeezing his legs together as his hands fall to Louis’ waistband, and “Please…”

Louis has to actually _try_ to formulate words. “Are you ready? Do you?” He breaks their kiss, splaying a hand onto the boy’s chest, and he can feel his heartbeat through his skin, “Do you need to go—”

Harry nearly goes with him, “I’m ready,” he interrupts, his fingers are still looped in Louis’ chinos, “Already. I’m ready. Now.”

Harry isn’t expecting Louis to _laugh_ , it seems, as his impatient tugging comes to a complete stop. He blinks, searching Louis’ face for answers, “ _No_. We aren’t just going to lay down this time.”

“Oh my god, _no_ ,” Louis kisses the side of his mouth, “It’s just…” and Harry is still and unmoving, practically gasping beneath Louis, “You must’ve been really confident in your performance then, huh?”

A moment passes.

Harry’s hand drops from Louis’ trousers, coming up to cover his face in embarrassment, “Oh my god,” and Louis _loves_ this, he really does, “I mean, I just—”

“Yeah?” Louis teases him.

Slowly, Harry peers through the cracks in his fingers. His eyes look greener than they ever have, wide and lustful and complimenting the pink of his cheeks.

He smiles the second Louis does. “I figured the collage would tip things in my favour.” He says.

It didn’t. Louis’ wanted to be with him, like this, since the day he met him—the countless displays of sentimentality ever since have just been a bonus.

So Louis laughs loudly into the small space between them, “Well,” he kisses the back of Harry’s hand until the boy lets it fall, their hands interlocking on the sheets, “Enough talking, then.”

The moment their eyes meet again, Harry laughs into Louis’ neck, bright and loud and happy.

And then Harry is letting Louis roll him onto his stomach, clumsily and ungracefully as Louis kisses down his spine, and in that moment, Louis is sure of one thing.

He’d quite like to do this for the rest of his life.

☆

Louis can’t hear him anymore.

“Did you get lost?” Louis calls out playfully, lying with one arm strewn over his head and the other on his stomach. He continues to watch the dark doorway, only the slight glow of lamplight illuminating the room. The clock on the wall reads eleven o’clock at night.

When Louis hears no response, he slowly slides his hand up to his chest. He can still feel his heartbeat, he feels like it may never slow down.

Louis looks up the second he hears his footsteps, “Glad you made it—” but he stops himself there. Harry is in the doorway now.

“I got you this.” The boy says as he leans against the doorframe, silently and gracefully, and _goddammit_ , Louis barely hears a word.

Because Harry’s completely naked—granted, he was when he left—but when his unruly hair is falling over his face, his skin still damp and glistening in the golden low light, well. Louis is having trouble speaking.

He’s breathtaking.

“Lou?”

It takes a moment for Louis to realize what he’s talking about. Tearing his eyes away from the curve of Harry’s waist, Louis sees that he’s holding out a wet flannel toward him.

Louis still can’t speak. So Harry does, his shadowy face breaking into a smile, “Are you okay?”

Louis can only muster a small nod. Harry seems to get it. Laughing, he crosses the room and crawls into bed beside Louis’ body, spreading the blanket over himself.

It doesn’t get any easier up close, especially not when Harry’s _giggling_ , wiping the skin of Louis’ stomach with his fringe falling in his eyes. The flannel is freezing against Louis’ hot skin, but he doesn’t mind, staring at Harry’s profile and running a hand through the back of his hair. He feels like he’s living in a movie.

“There,” Harry says proudly, oblivious to Louis’ touch as he drags the flannel over Louis’ collar bones, “All clean.”

Louis finally looks down. “Thank you.” He says, pressing a kiss to Harry’s temple.

Harry leans into the kiss, “Don’t thank me when this gets stuck to your floor.” he jests, carelessly tossing the flannel somewhere onto the ground before falling back onto the bed.

It lands with a light thump, and Louis couldn’t care less. Instead, he clicks off the lamp and watches Harry shimmy his body closer to him, attaching himself to his side. Seems they did pretty well for being lost.

A moment passes.

They exhale in unison.

“So,” Harry begins after a moment, “I’ve never really done this before.”

Louis actually laughs at that, feeling Harry’s eyelashes flutter against his ribcage.

“So,” Louis echoes, pausing for emphasis, “Me neither.”

“You’re kidding,” So Harry answered that a lot faster than Louis thought he would. And no, he’s not—other than the ‘boyfriend’ he had in year five, he wasn’t quite out at home. Don’t get him wrong, he’d known he was gay long before year five, fancied boy after boy until he moved out, watched Zayn _date_ boy after boy until he moved out, but he’d never really been with anyone. Not then, and not in first year. Not like this. Never like this. “Lou, you’re kidding, right?”

Louis runs a hand over Harry’s arm, he can’t help his laughter. Harry holds his breath for a moment, before exhaling all at once, “That’s mad. I thought for sure you’d—”

“Thank you. You too.” Louis giggles, and Harry’s hand comes down on top of his in an instant, his chest shaking with laughter as he gasps, “ _No,_ I didn’t mean _,_ well, _yes,_ actually, I just…”

Before Harry backpedals into last year, “Why haven’t you?” Louis interrupts.

This seems to take Harry off guard a little, but he recovers just as quick. Louis can feel his heart beat against his cheek, steady and constant.

“I only realized that I was gay in first year. Before that, I’d only dated girls in school, I suppose, but all we really did was gossip about other boys.” Harry explains, and listening to him talk, Louis’ fingers find one of his tattoos. Louis traces the inked lettering under his fingertip, spanning the boy’s left hip. He can feel the slight raise of where art meets skin, soft against his own, and for a moment he wonders what it would be like to get one. Or get one together. Or carve a tree, put a lock on a fence, sign a table.

Harry’s laughing, and it brings Louis right back, “I guess I should have seen the signs, hm?”

Louis laughs with him, yawning, “Maybe not. It all takes time.”

Harry seems to like that. Louis hears him yawn too, sinking further into the mattress. A plane flies by overhead.

Then, “I think we did first year all wrong, Lou.” he says.

Louis’ hand stops moving. He isn’t sure if Harry’s about to cry or laugh, and that’s a scary feeling. Luckily, Harry continues his thought before Louis can overthink it too much.

“Isn’t uni supposed to be about… _experimenting_?”

It’s the latter, and Louis scoffs at his little inflection. He’s sure an eyebrow waggle accompanied that, even if he can’t see it from his vantage point.

“I think you read too much, Harry.”

Harry doesn’t seem to think so. “We were supposed to meet at a fresher party, totally sloshed and hanging off each other, running up the stairs and into the nearest bedroom—”

“You’re an English major and I’m in Performing Arts. What _party_ would we be going to?” 

Harry shoves at his chest. “You know what I mean.” He groans, and maybe, _crazily_ , Louis does. With no experience under their belts, the boy’s first words to him were an apology, having just interrupted a casting meeting, and maybe Louis’ glad that it happened that way. Even if a drunken one-nighter at a fresher party would have given him another year of knowing Harry, now, everything they do together will be a first.

“I much prefer how we met.” Louis says.

A moment passes. Harry’s hold grows a little tighter. Louis feels him open his mouth and close it again, like he’s about to say something, but quickly decides against it.

Louis exhales.

He shuts his eyes.

Then, Harry’s speaking again. “Have you…” He begins slowly, dramatically, “Decided where will you be hanging my gift?”

Scoffing lazily, Louis opens his eyes again. He takes a quick look around, finally adjusting to the darkness, “Maybe… there.” he points to the space of wall above his desk, next to the photos of him and Zayn.

Harry hums in thought, rubbing circles into the back of Louis’ hand, “I was thinking more like…” he links his free hand in Louis’, using both their fingers to point to the space of wall behind Louis’ door, “There.”

Louis shakes his head soundly, “I wouldn’t be able to see it with my door fully open.” he comments, resting their linked hands on his stomach. Moonlight is washing over them.

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

Louis snorts. “That’s funny.”

“What’s funny?”

Louis can hear the smile in his tone, and he wants none of it. “That you’d give me something like that and expect me not to have it on display.”

“I feel the same way about my new iPod case.”

Harry didn’t even _hesitate_ , and Louis immediately spikes the boy’s hand out of his. 

“Oh my god, I’m never speaking to you again.” He whines, rubbing his hand over his face. Harry shakes freely with laughter, so much so, Louis’ chest is bouncing up and down with it. It’s a sound Louis thinks he’ll never get tired of hearing.

Louis is nearly asleep when Harry presses his kiss to his stomach. His laughter has finally faded into the darkness.

“Happy birthday, Lou.” He whispers.

☆

“Harry?”

A moment passes.

With one arm draped over Louis’ chest, his face tucked into the pillow, Louis is sure he’s asleep.

Then, “Hmph?” Harry murmurs.

Louis exhales slowly. He watches the moonlight dance over their bare skin, until his eyes land squarely on the boy’s face.

He can do this.

“I want to tell you what happened last year.” Louis says.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

It was a Sunday night, last proper school night before summer holiday, and Zayn was lying in his room.

Half asleep with a fizzy drink in hand, he was catching the end of a footie match on his sister’s mini-telly. She’d got a new television for her birthday the week before, so her old telly was gifted to his room. He wasn’t about to let it go to waste.

So, it was already a big night for Zayn—all done his revisions, new-ish telly, Real Madrid crushing Man U—and it only got bigger when the electronic stadium chants faded into frantic tapping on his bedroom window.

It was dark, but Zayn could still make out his best mate’s face through the glass. Smirking, Zayn hopped off his bed and slid up the windowpane, absolutely expecting some type saddened concession from the boy—there were seconds left in the match, Zayn’s team was _sure_ to beat his—but Zayn was met with no such thing.

Louis was less than a foot away and Zayn could barely recognize him.

He recognized the tiny slash through Louis’ eyebrow though, the dried blood congealed in his eyelashes and running down his nose bridge, the reddened imprints of _ringed knuckles_ across his cheekbone. He just never thought it would actually happen.

So Zayn hauled him into his room in an instant, shoving a pair of school trousers at him to apply pressure before going for the lamp.

It got worse when the light flicked on.

There Louis was, slumped against his best mate’s bedframe, bleeding onto the lower half of a school uniform with a blankness in his eyes. His hair was windblown, his skin red and raw, his blood smeared up the left wrist of his jumper—it was clear that he’d been holding his face while he ran, his jaw still chattering from the late summer air.

It was Louis’ favourite jumper, the blue one, and he never wore it again.

Even when Zayn made a joke about ruining the clothes, trying to haul Louis back from wherever his mind was, Louis didn’t laugh, he barely moved, staring down at his hands even while Zayn switched out the trousers for a face cloth. Next, Zayn went for Louis’ jumper, carefully lifting it over his head and replacing it with his own.

That’s when Mrs. Malik appeared in the doorway. She was ready to scold them, glancing up from her cuppa with incredulity in her eyes as the boys turned her way, but she stopped just as quick. One look at Louis and her anger evaporated.

The next half hour was spent washing away the blood, blotting Louis’ eyebrow, and steri-stripping the cut. With bandage wrappers and reddened tissues littering the floor, and the lamp relocated to Louis’ side, Mrs. Malik worked quickly.

She didn’t say anything about the stained trousers. In fact, she didn’t say much at all. She merely rested her palm against Louis’ cheek for an extra moment after she’d finished up, and then headed back downstairs.

They lay awake for the next two hours.

Maybe Zayn’s bed wasn’t all that comfortable for two, or maybe Louis’ cheek was aching a little too much. Either way, as each second ticked by, Louis grew more and more fidgety. Zayn could feel him moving, practically hear him thinking, until he was telling Zayn what happened before either of them even realized it.

His mum had gone out to the store before dinner. The girls were in their rooms, Louis was sat at the table opening mail, and his dad was on the sofa watching the same match Zayn was. Traffic made her late, alcohol made him impatient, an acceptance letter made Louis ecstatic, and his dad was absolutely not having it when his mum tripped over Louis’ feet and dropped the roast on the floor.

It was Louis’ fault, he’d said it himself—he wanted to tell her he’d be going to school with Zayn, danced around her with the letter in his hands, not waiting until the groceries were safely down on the table.

When his dad got up from the sofa, eyes trained on the duo in the kitchen and the spilt beef on the tile, Louis knew what was about to happen. Despite the seventeen years of verbal abuse to him, his four younger sisters, and his mum, it hadn’t happened before.

It was only ever always a matter of time.

So, Louis threw himself between them—between his dad’s fist and her cheek.

With a sickening crack, Louis was knocked down onto the tile. He saw red before he felt anything else, looking up at his dad with blood in his eyes. Louis could only watch as his dad shook out his ringed hand, ready to go again with a house full of young kids, but the shock of pulling back to see the wrong person on the ground caused him to hesitate.

Louis had just enough time to scramble to his feet, bracketing himself against the fridge, and when he turned to his mum for help, she was already crowding her husband’s space.

With her son’s blood under her feet, she was clinging to his heaving chest, begging for his forgiveness and vowing to never do it again. She said it was a warning they deserved for ruining dinner and acting so childishly, and there was something _sincere_ in her voice.

Their voices died in the wind as Louis bolted down the street.

The next morning, Mrs. Malik drove Louis home. The windows were dark when they arrived, pulling into the empty spot where his dad’s car used to be. And when his mum opened the door to her bandaged son, she looked almost disappointed that it was Louis who was returning home, and not him.

Louis could see it, his sister’s could see it, Zayn’s mum could see it, but she couldn’t.

That was the end of it.

They graduated. Louis stayed at Zayn’s all summer. Mrs. Malik moved them to university in September. His parents divorced in December. His mum’s been calling ever since.

Zayn had seen Louis cry at less. Louis’ eyes were dry that night. Zayn can’t help but think that this was when Louis made the decision to never go home again.


	14. Chapter Fourteen

Rolling over onto his back with sunlight peeking under his eyelids, Louis inhales deeply.

So, it’s finally— _bacon_.

His eyes shoot open.

It’s finally _Christmas_ , is what he meant, but there’s also the smell of grease and salt wafting into his room and Louis would be insane not to notice.

Not that there’s anything wrong with the smell of bacon, definitely not, it’s just that Louis can’t even _remember_ the last time he woke to the smell of breakfast. It was a rare occurrence in his childhood—maybe one or two Saturdays spread throughout a year—but it’s also one of the few things with good memories attached to it, _great_ ones if Louis’ honest. Maybe he forgot just great those memories were.

Because right now, as he inhales once more, warmth is flooding Louis’ chest like he’s ten years old again, and _that_ is a crazy feeling.

What a Happy Christmas _,_ indeed.

Louis’ nearly fallen asleep when the door cracks open.

“Lou?”

Sunlight rushes the room, and like a proper child, “Mmhm…” Louis shoves the blankets over his face, blocking out the halo of light around the boy’s head, “…too bright.”

He hears the boy laugh lightly, unapologetically, as the bed shifts like he’s taken a seat. Louis’ not sure of it, of course, and he would gladly leave that fact up to interpretation as he cowers from the light, but then it hits him.

 _Last night,_ he means.

Gifts. Crying. Laughing. Kissing. Touching _._ Talking _._ Breathing. _An unfiltered recount of Louis’ past._

Louis freezes under the blanket. And when Harry shifts on the bed again, obviously trying to get Louis’ attention, Louis feels like he can’t move, let alone speak _._ He’s got nothing but static in his mind, can’t seem to focus on anything other than the fact that Harry _knows_ now.

He knows and Louis chose to tell him. He’s the only person Louis has ever told.

A hand comes down on the blanket, causing it to fall from Louis’ hands. He’s met with the most beautiful boy he’s ever seen. Sunlit and smiling, tacky Santa hat flattening his fringe, there’s a warmth in his eyes that Louis can feel in his chest.

He would do it all over again.

Harry lips part, smiling widely, “Happy—”

But _,_ “Holy shit,” Louis interrupts as he gawks downward, the smell of salt, citrus, and grease filling his senses immediately, “What’s all this?”

Harry looks down in a rush, nearly toppling the tray of food at his knees, before eyeing his handiwork unabashedly.

He clears his throat, “Oh, this?” but Louis already knows what this is—he knows _exactly_ what this is. A stack of buttered toast, a cup of strawberries, a plate of bacon, a couple of freshly baked muffins, glasses of orange juice, two plates, napkins, for god’s sake—it’s a bloody _breakfast in bed_ that the boy’s prepared for them, like they’ve been married for decades, and for some reason Louis feels like he’s about to short-circuit.

Louis absolutely can’t believe this.

But then Harry’s looking up, the cotton of his hat falling into his eyes, and Louis has never felt more present in his entire life.

And, “Happy Christmas.” Harry whispers.

☆

Louis downs the rest of his juice right as Harry does.

Harry catches him in his peripheral, and “Cheers.” he laughs, before reaching out his hand to take the empty cup.

They’d retreated under the blanket not too long ago, with full bellies and the boy’s dumb Santa hat strewn somewhere on Louis’ floor, bodies warm and ankles knocking together.

Louis hands him the cup, and then leans back into the headboard, “ _Dammit_ , that was good. I’m actually angry at how good that was.”

Harry mimics his actions, careful to not knock over the now desolate tray of plates as it sits at their feet, and “Angry?” he repeats.

Louis exhales in defeat, arms lazily at his sides like the true glutton he is, “I’ve never even seen a fruit in this flat.”

Harry laughs again, toying with a napkin in his hands, “No?”

“A fork, either.”

“Oh my god,” It seems like Harry hasn’t stopped laughing. Louis would be too, if he hadn’t just been hit with the knowledge that they do, in fact, own cutlery, “Seems I should have done this for you sooner.”

Louis runs a hand over his face. It still smells like… “And the _muffins—_ god _, where_ did you get those?”

“I baked them.”

Louis’ hand freezes. He glares at him through his fingers. “You what?” He gasps.

“Baked… them.” Harry articulates slowly, and where Louis would expect to hear confusion in the boy’s voice, he only hears one thing: _anticipation_. Harry knew what would happen the minute he stepped foot into that kitchen and he did it anyway. Have they really reached that point?

Louis’ gaze returns to Harry.

He’s _giggling_.

They absolutely have.

And Louis is absolutely rushing across the space between them, pressing his lips to the boy’s in an instant. It’s a strong kiss, a motionless kiss, a _thank you_ kiss.

Cupping Louis’ cheek with his hand, Harry seems to get the idea.

Only when they pull away does Louis remember the world is still going on around them, and he turns his torso toward the boy, “How did you do this? When did you have the time to bake?”

Harry’s angled his torso as well, pausing for a moment, “Broke into Arch for supplies, at around half eight. Everything’s closed, y’know, so I had to get crafty. The muffins came out of the oven seconds before you woke up.”

And here Louis was, convinced his oven was just for show. He lets his head fall onto his pillow in defeat. Harry _ran errands_ and _baked a bloody buffet_ before Louis even opened his eyes. He has never felt more pathetic in his entire life.

And more smitten. Still, “I apologize for being useless.” Louis chuckles pitifully.

“Well, maybe not entirely,” Harry says, and when Louis looks his way, something flashes across his eyes, “Gemma and my mum are taking the train up today for Christmas, I’m meeting them at the station and then showing them around the campus.”

“That’s great.” Louis comments honestly, because maybe he can recall just a few late nights on the pitch where the boy’s childhood stories had lasted long into the morning— _few_ being used lightly. Louis didn’t mind. The boy worships the ground his mum and sister walk on, he loves them more than anything, so much so, Louis was beginning to wonder when they’d make their guest appearances.

But still, Harry looks like he’s reciting a poorly memorized speech, “Yeah, they haven’t visited the campus properly yet, so I thought I’d show them around. See the sights, check out my dorm, y’know...”

Louis nods, rubbing his eyes, “Show your mum what she’s paying for?”

Harry laughs at that, or at least tries to, his breathing quickening as he hesitates, “Right, yeah. Then, it’s off to Christmas dinner somewhere before, I was thinking, maybe… the musical.”

Louis’ hands stop moving. His eyes trail over to Harry. The boy has never looked more afraid. Because he isn’t reciting his daily plans, or inquiring about a dinner recommendation, or asking whether or not his mum and sister can attend a university musical _open to the public_ —not at all.

With early morning sunlight pouring over his face, his eyes trained on something over Louis’ shoulder, he’s actually asking if… “And then, if you want, you could meet them.”

Louis hands fall to his mouth, his fingertips just grazing over his lips as he takes in the boy’s words. Louis knows they’re just people, normal people like himself or Zayn, but still his heart beats at the thought of meeting them, his mind searching for the words but unable to come up with anything.

And clearly, Louis’ silence has gone on for too long, because Harry’s already backpedaling, “Or, you can meet them another time, I’m—”

Funny thing is, Louis feels like he already has. “ _No_ ,” He interrupts, turning his head toward Harry in earnest, “Bring them to the show. I’d love to.”

It only takes a second for the corners of Harry’s mouth turn upward, the light returning to his eyes, it suits him, “Gem can’t wait to meet you,” Harry stares at Louis for a moment longer, shaking his head, “She says I talk about you all the time.”

Louis rolls his eyes amicably, “If it’s _anything_ like the way you talk about them—”

“It is.” Harry whispers before budging up onto his knees, scooping up the tray and empty glasses with a dopey grin.

☆

“Shadows! Center left!”

“Pumpkin chorus! Places!”

“Ghosts, lively now! Upstage right!”

“Witches, Vamps, Creature! Let’s go!”

And, standing still as his decorated cast and crew run about him, dodging each other and every set piece of Halloween Town, seconds before the first musical number is to begin, Louis places his fist to his mouth and bites back a sob.

“Shit… this _really_ is Halloween.” He whispers to himself.

“Actually, this is Christmas.” A voice whispers back from beside him.

Louis nearly falls into a pile of fake pumpkins. His head snaps to his right, and Aaron—in his bald-capped, pinstriped glory—is beaming at him under his white face makeup. He adjusts his tailcoat, his hands pale and boney, his eyes still shining in the hollows of his black eye sockets.

If the curtains weren’t opening in ten seconds, Louis would’ve cried.

Instead, Louis panics. “ _Aaron_! What are you—get out there!” Louis blurts, grabbing the boy’s shoulders, narrowing missing his theatrical collar, “Center, uh, center stage!” he pushes, and to his dismay, Aaron is laughing harder than Louis even knew he could, “We’ve got like _ten_ —”

Until the boy spins on his feet, escaping Louis’ hold and placing his own hands on Louis’ shoulders, “I just wanted to wish you a Happy Christmas,” he says matter-of-factly, before darting across the stage toward the cobblestone fountain, high-fiving a ghost as he shouts, like he’s never been more alive than in this very moment, “Happy Christmas, Mr. Tomlinson!”

Louis cries.

Then, the curtains are hauled back and the narrator begins his monologue, each person perfectly in place.

_T’was a long time ago, longer now than it seems…_

_in a place that perhaps you've seen in your dreams_ …

☆

_And sit together, now and forever…_

_for it is plain as anyone can see…_

_we’re simply meant to be…_

As Aaron and Millie—Jack and Sally—kiss atop the makeshift cliff before the glowing moon, the stage lights dim to darkness and the curtains close.

It’s over.

The crowd erupts in cheers.

_It’s really over._

But not quite. Slowly, the curtains are hauled open again, the cast locking arms in pre-determined rows. Louis watches from side stage as their chests rise and fall in unison, their faces red and glistening under the stage lights, their wide smiles nearly causing the tapped microphones to pop off their cheeks.

Group by group, one by one, each member of the cast bows, as the audience’s cheers grow louder. And soon enough, the crew floods the stage too, every person who had memorized lines, gave criticism, arranged a musical number, blocked a scene, learnt choreography, stitched a costume—rather, who selflessly devoted _three months_ of their life to the production—until the entire platform is full of each face Louis’d seen step into the theatre, all in the hopes of becoming a part of something bigger.

They did it.

Louis locks eyes with Professor Miller then, as she stands in the front row. She grins at him like he’s the sun. He grins back just as brightly.

Then, it’s Aaron and Millie’s turn to bow, and the crowd cheers the loudest yet. Louis is practically screaming as Aaron locks hands with his costar, the black makeup running down his face as he gestures appreciatively to Millie.

Aaron stays put for just long enough to lock eyes with Louis across the stage. And even if the space between them is washed-out and hazy, crowded and bustling, Louis can still see the realization in Aaron’s eyes—realization that this is what he was always meant to do.

And then Aaron is running across the stage, and Louis knows exactly what is about to happen.He doesn’t even the time to duck and hide, to cower and made a run for it, because before he knows it he’s got Aaron’s hand around his wrist and Emilie’s hands pushing on his back, both shouting, “ _Showtime_!”

Louis tries to pull away, screaming and shouting for them to let him go, but it’s no use. Emilie is laughing just as loud as he is screaming, and Aaron hasn’t wiped the grin off his face since the curtain fell.

The second the stage lights hit Louis’ skin, the room erupts in cheers all over again. Maybe, just _maybe_ , with his cast and crew wrapping their arms around his waist, swaying back in forth in the golden light, Louis can hear the entire world cheering for them too.

☆

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my _god_ —”

Louis’ mouth is rambling one hundred times a minute as he runs into Harry’s arms, narrowing avoiding a box of fake stones, and “We did it! Harry! We did it!” he continues, heaving his breaths in and out like he can’t get enough, actual tears running down his cheeks, “We actually _did_ it!”

Harry wastes no time pressing his lips to Louis’, lifting him from the floor and spinning him around.

Louis laughs into the kiss, watery and buzzing, like he’ll never feel this way ever again, and “I know!” Harry shouts once he’s pulled away, pressing his forehead to Louis’, “ _Shit_ , I am so proud of you.”

Louis shuts his eyes, releasing a breath he feels like he’s been holding for years. He would quite like this moment to carry on forever.

“Well, if it isn’t the _director_.” 

Louis opens his eyes. Appearing from the backstage side staircase, the butchered French accent quite literally rolling off his tongue and smashing to the ground, is Zayn, with his hand snugly tucked in Liam’s.

So, maybe he takes it back. “Don’t start.” Louis scoffs as his feet return to the floor, Harry placing one last kiss on Louis’ damp cheek before turning around to face them.

Backstage has mostly cleared out by this point, only discarded wardrobe pieces and production programmes lining the ground. Louis can hear the roar of laughter and the bawl of tears as the cast and crew take to the seats, to be congratulated by their friends and family.

And to his surprise, Zayn doesn’t start. He simply slips his hand out Liam’s and crosses the floor, placing his hand on the back of Louis’ head as he hugs him.

“That was bloody incredible.” He whispers, and it’s sincerity without a jest, like he means it, just barely loud enough for Louis to hear.

But he does. “Thank you.” Louis whispers back.

As they pull away, Zayn holds on for a moment longer, “Oh, and don’t think I didn’t see the massive lovebite on Harry’s neck,” he whispers amusedly, “I’ve been distracting away Niall from it all night.”

Louis freezes in place.

But then Zayn is backing up entirely, giving him a proper wink on his way, and Louis can feel actual tears welling up in his eyes. He’s three seconds away from pleading his case when the sound of an obnoxious blond cuts him off. And for the first time in four months, he’s _happy_ about it.

“Bro!” Niall’s practically screaming as he ascends the small staircase, programme in one hand and Cassandra’s in the other. He’s got excitement dancing in his eyes and a rose tucked behind his ear as he crosses the space between them, Louis’ sure he nicked it from someone’s bouquet, “I _loved_ it! I will never forgive myself for blowing it off last year.”

“Hi, Cass.” Louis says, purposely ignoring the blond as he budges up to kiss her cheek. She giggles into Louis cheek as Niall watches the exchange, positively gawking, and Louis swears he can hear Zayn laughing under his breath.

His rose falls to the ground. “Uh _, hello_? Your second best mate is—”

“It was so great, Louis. Congratulations.” Cassandra interrupts, like the great woman she is, and Niall’s whining becomes even louder.

Louis gives in, “Niall! My second best mate! So glad you could make it.” and like a golden retriever, Niall drops his cross routine, throwing his arms around Louis’ shoulders.

“I forgive you for all your worrying and maddening rehearsal talk,” He announces into Louis’ neck, rubbing circles into his shoulder blades, “Turns out it was all worth it.”

“Thank god.” Louis chuckles amicably, before pulling away. He gives a final smile to Niall, a genuine one. The blond smiles back just as genuinely.

Then, “Hey, Lou?”

Louis sidesteps to clear Niall from his line of sight—and a _sight_ they are. Standing beside him in the same exact pose, Gemma and Anne look more like Harry than Louis could’ve ever _imagined_ , light brown curls, ivory skin, kind eyes, and all. Louis nearly covers his mouth in awe.

“Gem, Mum,” Harry begins gently, taking Louis right out of his daze, right back to him, “This is Louis.”

There’s warmth in his voice that has Louis’ chest filling with pride, his eyes flicking back and forth between his family and Louis. And then Louis is stepping forward without hesitation, closing the space between them, and extending his hand out to Anne.

“Hi,” He says slowly, earnestly, “It’s so lovely to meet you both. Happy Christmas.”

She smiles at him, it’s Harry’s smile, “Happy Christmas, so lovely to meet you too,” she wastes no time in pulling Louis in for a hug, “We’ve heard too much about you.” 

Now, Louis’ the one to smile. “Great, we can skip the introductions then.”

“Absolutely.” Anne’s shoulders shake as she laughs, pulling away to make room for her daughter to wrap her arms around Louis’ shoulders.

“The show was insane,” Gemma says into Louis’ neck, excitedly rocking back and forth, “Haven’t seen the film since I was young, it brought back all kinds of memories.”

Louis smiles into the material of her jumper. “They did such a good job, didn’t they?”

Gemma’s got a look on her face when she pulls away, the same look Harry gives him when Louis worries about project Harry knows he’ll ace, “As they say, great leaders inspire greatness in others.” she says.

Louis can’t help but smile at her, Harry sidestepping to Louis’ side. And when Harry’s hand wraps around Louis’ waist, squeezing lightly as his family smiles back at him, Louis’ sure there’s nothing in the world that can end this moment.

Until, “ _Louis_!”

For the specificity, somehow all eight of them look toward the staircase, where Emilie is standing excitedly. Her coat is on, her bag strung over her shoulder, and her eyes red-rimmed with tears of joy.

She looks exactly how Louis feels. Louis suddenly wants to hug her until they’re both crying again.

“The cast is going to the pub off Lanes. You in?”

Louis takes a quick look at the people around him—his mates, his best mate, Harry, and his family. He is surrounded by the most important people in his life, on one of the most important nights of his life, and he’d be entirely mad if he didn’t want to get smashed.

☆

“Millie, I absolutely missed my cue after you started—”

“Are you kidding, Aaron? I nearly missed mine like ten times. I had the lament stuck in my head, _curse_ _you_ for doing it so well.”

“But _you_ did so well. I can’t believe—”

“Hey, children? Yous _both_ did so well, now order your food.”

Their conversation ends abruptly. The server nearly drops her notepad. Louis chokes on his pint. And rising from the aftermath of his words, as if he said nothing at all, Zayn returns to his menu nonchalantly. 

“Did…” Aaron whispers, swallowing dryly as he looks down the table, “Did I just get yelled at by Zayn Malik?”

No one says a word.

Then, “Shit, that was _amazing_!” Aaron exhales.

The table erupts in laughter, their server smiling sheepishly as she takes Aaron’s order and continues down the table. Still, Liam smacks the daylights out of Zayn’s arm, not that he cares, and Louis exhales in relief. Harry takes a deep breath beside him too, looking around the table as Gemma scoffs into the back of her hand.

Only when their server’s out of earshot, does Louis leans across the table to Zayn. “Still practicing arseholery?” He asks, earning a chuckle from Harry.

Zayn looks up again. “What?” He says, flat.

Right. Rolling his eyes amicably, Louis turns back toward Harry and Gemma. But they aren’t looking his way anymore, not at all—they’re bundled up like excited children, eyeing something over Louis’ shoulder.

Louis swears Harry just giggled. “What?” Louis asks, spinning around in his chair before the boy’s hand comes down on his wrist.

Harry’s smiling wide, almost pitifully, “Niall is trying to carry five pints back from the bar,” he explains, to which Gemma covers her mouth in sheer amusement, “How long do you think it’ll take for him to realize he doesn’t have enough hands?”

Gemma tucks her chin into Harry’s bicep, choking back her laughter, “Five quid he drops them all before he takes three steps.”

Harry’s choking back his laughter too. “Two steps, and I’ll raise you seven.”

Louis blinks. He’s looking at the _same_ person. And he’s suddenly glad their mum went back to the hotel for the night.

They’re _delinquents_. “Well, considering those are _our_ drinks,” Louis muses, his gaze finally landing on Niall. To the blond’s his credit, as he manhandles the moist glasses on the bar top, five pints _are_ hard to carry—what isn’t hard, though, is deciding against carrying them alone, “Shouldn’t we help him carry them over?”

A moment passes.

Harry and Gemma never once look Louis’ way.

Right.

Louis refocuses his gaze. It’s not like he didn’t try. “One step, ten quid.” He whispers, equally childlike and giddy, chewing on his thumbnail.

They’re a literal accordion of childish behavior as they watch in anticipation, laughter rippling through their bodies, and “Shit, this is it…” when Niall finally turns toward their table, “The _steps_. Someone count his steps.” there’s nothing in the world that could possibly pull them away from the spectacle unfolding before them.

Except, maybe, Cassandra.

“Wait…” Harry starts, slow and confused, as the petite brunette closes the distance between herself and Niall, on her way back from the toilets, “Is she…” Gemma continues, and they can’t quite make out what she’s saying from across the pub, but when she crowds her boyfriend in a panic, taking half the pints from him like the sweet and helpful girl she is, it becomes very clear what’s just happened.

All bets are off.

Harry nearly throws himself off his chair, “Traitor!” he shouts with cupped hands, but Louis’ already clamped his hands over his mouth, laughing hysterically as he shushes him, “Oh my god—see, yelling _traitor_ in public is what we’re _not_ going to do.”

“ _What_?” Niall looks up immediately, yelling back just as loudly, “What’s up?”

“It’s nothing—” Louis starts, shaking his head as Harry squirms under his touch, but “ _Traitor_! That was my money!” Gemma screams, and _right_ , Louis really should have seen that coming. He has two Harrys beside him, after all.

Both Niall and Cassandra are squinting through the pub’s air, Louis can see the wheels turning in their heads, “ _What_?” Niall repeats, raising the glasses, “I have your pints right here.”

“Fantastic!” Louis wastes no time in cutting the blond off, mostly because he’s sure both Gemma and Harry were about to too, “Bring them over!”

Harry pulls himself out of Louis’ grasp then, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, “Well, I suppose there’s only one thing we can do now,” he turns toward his sister, “Down the pints and send him on another run.”

A chorus of the Styles sibling laughter backs Niall’s return to the table. He places his handful of glasses on the table, the liquid sloshing onto the table slightly, “What are you two on about?” he asks.

Harry’s practically wiping tears from his eyes, “Nothing.” he slurs.

The blond’s eyes flick back and forth between his best mate and his sister. He pauses, like he actually believes he’s going to get a coherent answer, and Louis pushes at his forearm.

“Sit, Niall,” he whispers lovingly, “They’re plastered.”

Cassandra laughs at that, placing pints down in front of both herself and Louis, before guiding her boyfriend to their seats. Louis smiles at her thankfully. She smiles back.

And then the table resumes its roar of noise—glasses clinking, castmates reminiscing, bursts of laughter and singing, Harry and Gemma whispering sweet nothings to each other, etcetera. Louis slides his hand into his glass, sinking back into his chair, and he can’t believe that _this_ is his life.

Until suddenly, he’s standing to his feet, clink his fork against his pint, and he can’t believe it either.

“Can I get everyone’s attention?” Louis shouts.

Seems Zayn’s in the same boat, as “Surely, you’re not giving a bloody speech right now.” he deadpans, knocking back the rest of his drink.

Louis ignores his best mate’s condescending tone, continuing his clinking. It may have taken a second, but soon enough the entire table silences around him, the entire cast turning their eyes.

Louis inhales, “Right, so I just wanted to same something really quick,” his eyes bounce back and forth between each face, and for a performing arts major, he actually feels kind of nervous, “I know that the past three months haven’t been easy. I know about the long nights and early mornings, all the practice and perfecting, all the hard work that went into getting us where we are, and _holy_ _fuck_ —shit, sorry, I mean…”

The table laughs wholeheartedly, Niall slapping the tabletop as he belly laughs. Louis runs a hand over his face, Harry patting his thigh he continues, “What I mean is, I know this because it wasn’t an easy for me either,” the table quiets again, and this time, it’s Zayn who meets Louis’ gaze. He lowers his drink as Louis continues, “To be honest, I was terrified to direct you. I nearly didn’t. You are all _so_ talented. I didn’t want to let you down.”

Louis can’t believe he’s actually saying this. Still, there’s a collective eyebrow furrow across the table, one that has Louis’ chest filling with timidity and Zayn’s eyes filling with pride, “But enough of that, because each day you made me realize that it was never about me. It was always about you lot, and the incredible work you did each day. You accomplished something absolutely amazing tonight and you should be so proud of yourselves.”

Louis shifts his weight onto the other foot, a smile tugging at his lips as he finishes, “I guess what I’m trying to say is—thank you. I’m proud of you. I owe you. We are a family.”

A moment passes.

And what happens next Louis thought he would never live to see.

Before the table can break into applause, _Zayn_ is standing to his feet, glass raised and throat cleared, absolutely taking part in Louis’ _bloody speech_.

“To The Nightmare before Christmas.” He announces, avoiding Louis’ eyes completely as he looks down the table, and to say Louis is outraged would be an understatement. He wants to smack the sentimentality right out of him.

He cries instead.

“ _To The Nightmare before Christmas_!” The table echoes, Louis included, and they all raise their glasses in unison. Louis finally catches Zayn’s eye as the boy brings his glass up to his mouth, his lips curving into a small smile. Louis smiles too, mostly because he has no idea how he’ll ever thank him for everything he’s done. He’s not sure he ever will.

And then they’re all tipping their heads back together, and Louis can feel pride dancing in his heart, love filling his chest, tears welling in his eyes, and his mobile buzzing his trouser pocket.

Wait.

Hold on.

Louis comes down onto his seat, patting his pockets aimlessly as the table resumes their conversations once more.

Harry is already on him though, placing his hand on top of Louis’, “I’m so proud of you, Lou,” he says earnestly, before pausing entirely, “Are you… vibrating?”

Louis scoffs, pressing a quick kiss to Harry’s open mouth, “My mobile,” he explains, finally snaking the dumb device out of his trousers. He stands to his feet in an instant, letting his hand run along the boy’s shoulders as he heads toward the toilet, “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be right here!” Harry shouts over his shoulder, to which Gemma snorts, “Yeah, where else would you be?” bumping her arm into her brother’s.

☆

The door’s barely shut behind him and he’s already ducking his head down in the search for feet, for company.

He’s waddling across the quaint toilet like a madman, eyes flicking from cubical to cubical, mobile still blaring for attention in his palm, as his fingers tuck a loose strand of his fringe behind his ear.

When he’s met with only the sweet and sultry sounds of a dodgy exhaust fan instead of urinating patrons, Louis pops upright and answers the phone call, narrowly avoiding a sink to the head.

He’s alone.

So, “Hello?” Louis answers.

At first, Louis hears nothing in return. The line is silent, aside from the monotonous hum of electrical static, the only sound ricocheting off of the four paneled walls is Louis’ own laboured breathing.

Louis leans against the granite sink. He pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth, sandwiching his mobile between his shoulder and ear so he can unbutton his tux jacket. He’s halfway through fixing his fringe in the mirror when he remembers something.

Someone should be talking here.

“ _Hello_?” Louis repeats, this time less frantic and more singsong-esque, and he swears he can hear the sound of Harry’s drunken laughter from across the pub. He’s an idiot. He's Louis' idiot. Neither of which seem to upset him.

Until, “Hello? Sweetheart?”

Louis’ back stiffens instantly. A stray piece of hair falls over his eye.

“I told you not to ring me.” He says bluntly, because _no,_ this is absolutely not happening right now. Louis has made a conscious effort to avoid her calls since that mid-November night, and he’s not about to slip up while standing in a toilet. Even if she is his mother.

“I know,” Louis hears her swallow dryly, “I hate to bother you, but I’ve got news.” She says it in a way that makes Louis’ entire body shake with anger. It’s Christmas and he’s just put on the best show of his entire life— _bloody_ _hell_ , the last thing he needs right now is a reminder of why he once hadn’t put on a show at all.

He feels stupid and adolescent and he doesn’t care. He does _not_ care. “Is it an emergency?” Louis deadpans.

“Well, no, baby. But—”

“If it isn’t, why’d you ring me?” He brushes his entire fringe back in one hasty movement. 

“I wanted to ask you something,” She sounds different, Louis thinks, almost worried, “And, well…”

“I’m not sure I understand why you’re asking me,” Louis interjects, and he isn’t lying. After nearly nine years of mind-numbing miscommunication between the two of them, Louis should be the _last_ person on her list of avid listeners, if at all. Putting thought to tongue, Louis crosses his ankles and finishes, “There are better people to ask, I’m sure of it.”

“But I wanted to ask you,” She drawls, her voice sweet and nurturing and relentless as it flows through the mobile like honey. Louis hates honey. “Because it’s something only you can do for me—something I’d only want you to do.”

Louis pushes off the stone then, fighting off as much of her cloudy, guilt-inducing syntax as humanly possible. He throws a hand out before him, sternly.

“Look—”

“I’m getting married, sweetheart.”

Louis’ entire body freezes. His hand falls from the air. He’s left in the same silence as before, a silence that seems all too loud now, as he blinks incredulously, wide and panic stricken. He’s trying to _wake himself up_ , for fuck’s sake, but her words are stuck in his brain, echoing and ricocheting like bullets in his head.

He can hear her tiny electronic voice calling for him from his hand.

Louis brings his mobile back up to his ear, “I…” and maybe a part of him realizes how unfair he’s being. It’s a different time, a different man—so what if it’s soon, there are so many factors that could make this work out for the better, and to be frank, Louis shouldn’t be allowed to judge a situation like this.

 _All that_ , of course, if Louis had heard of this man before today.

“I told you,” He struggles aimlessly, and he sounds like a child, voice cracking and rising in the middle, “For emergencies, it’s—it’s not an emergency.”

Maybe _this_ what she kept calling about.

“But it is, baby. I wasn’t going to ring your mobile again, but Mark and I, we’ve been waiting for months to tell you,” and _Mark?_ Louis mouths slackly, silently rolling off his tongue like a sick joke, she got divorced a _year_ ago, “I know how busy you are, but Louis, the wedding’s on the thirty-first and I wanted to give you enough time to sort your schedule out.” She drawls, voice sticky and clingy once again, and Louis is almost offended.

As if she genuinely believes Louis would sort anything out for her, for her _new groom_ , like Louis would push aside his spare time just to parade himself around in too-tight trousers and shiny loafers, laughing and smiling for the cameras like they’re such a close knit family.

Louis is an actor, but he’d never become that character.

His hand balls up into a tight fist at his side. “Finals start on the fourteenth and I have a lot to revise,” He says, flat. He buttons his tux jacket. Then unbuttons it. He can hear the triumphant roar of guests as their food arrives, _his_ food arrives. “Plus, I don’t know what Zayn has planned for New Year’s.”

“Oh, Zayn!” Her pleased gasp is audible from the other end of the phone call, “Why don’t you just bring him down with you? I’m sure the girls would love to see him. How is he?”

That’s a blow to the gut Louis absolutely did not need right now. _The girls._ Her words are immediately wiped away with images of their faces, helpless and voiceless as their mother prepares them for what only starts with forgotten birthdays and tear-soaked sheets. Louis cannot let this happen again. Not again. 

“He’s fine. Look, I’ve really got to—”

“Wait, before you go, I haven’t asked you it yet.”

Louis’ hand freezes midair, his thumb tauntingly hovering over _end call_. He shuts his eyes, immersing himself in a darkness that seems all too yellow from the ceiling lights, and offers up no words. The catching of his breath is the only protest he makes.

She continues. “You don’t have to, of course—” Louis flinches. “—but it would be just lovely if you could give me away at my wedding. For granddad’s sake.”

The pause continues.

Louis can feel her trying to read him, as if this isn’t just a phone call and they’re actually face to face—him sat down at the bare dinner table and her taking a tentative seat beside him, her hand on his back, rubbing promising circles into his Christmas jumper until he wants to tear the fabric off entirely, as if nothing in the world matters to her except for the two of them. Not the hole in the wall, the shattered window, the last Christmas as a family—just, simply, her and him.

Louis didn’t want to talk then, and he doesn’t want to talk now.

“You know that you’re still my little boy, right? No matter how far away you—”

“Don’t.” Louis cuts in, eyes wide open.

“—nothing will ever…” She stops herself there. For a long moment. “Sweetheart?”

If Louis were really still her little boy, she would know that it was never the distance. Out of all the regret and spite and things that made this so bloody hard for Louis, distance made it _easier_. He could shut her out by simply hanging up his mobile, ignoring her calls, trashing an unopened letter. Distancing himself is the only way Louis is able to hear the words _my little boy_ without smashing his mobile onto the floor and sobbing.

“Hello? Have I lost you?”

For a naïve moment, Louis wonders if she can feel the heat of his skin through his mobile. His blood feels like it’s seething through his veins, like nothing will ever be able to cool him down again­—like the last thing Louis needs in the entire world is to hear her voice once more. One more word and he’ll catch fire.

And that’s exactly what he gets.

“Oh, love, please—”

Louis cuts her off. “I have to go.” He says in a rush that nearly has his head spinning, because he doesn’t trust himself to stay on this phone call any longer. His hands are shaking and his heart is beating out of his chest, and he can’t control that, so how is he supposed to control what comes out of his mouth?

“I didn’t mean to upset you, really, it’s Christmas—” She tries, but Louis has already dropped his mobile from his ear. It hits the tile with a sickening crack. Louis doesn’t even flinch. 

He immediately spins on his heels, throwing a palm down onto the smooth steel worktop for support, so he doesn’t topple over entirely. His knees actually feel weak, his breathing turned to short gasps, as his palms come down on the granite like bricks. He’s got hair in his eyes and watery vision, the worktop spotting with tears. They’re in between his fingers and running down the drain, falling from his eyes without as much as a notice, until both Louis’ sleeves are wet with it.

Louis’ gaze trails up the smooth glass of the mirror. He sees nothing staring back at him—not even his own reflection.

Louis doesn’t hear the door open either.

“Mr. Tomlinson?” There’s a trembling hand on his forearm. “What’s…”

Louis immediately turns towards the cubicles and chucks his arm over his eyes, wiping the wetness away on the wool of his now damp tux sleeve. It’s frantic and unproductive and so bloody obvious, but Louis doesn’t think twice. He can’t even fathom the last ten minutes of his life, let alone concealing his emotional breakdown.

He can hear Aaron’s breath catch from behind him.

Neither man says a word.

Ages pass.

Louis’ shoes squeak on the tile when he finally turns around.

He’s met with the same set of blue eyes he has become so accustomed to over the past two and a half months, with the slight hue of white over his cheeks and the remnants of black makeup around his eyes. _God_ , if Louis’ going to have someone catch him falling apart, does he ever wish it had been someone else.

Because Aaron’s eyes shouldn’t be this wide with shock, his jaw shouldn’t be hanging open slightly, and he most definitely shouldn’t be this _still._ Even if Louis met the boy when he was shy and fearful, Louis _knows_ him now, has seen him in his element—lively, bold, and certain—Louis’ been around the boy long enough to know that he wasn’t made to be this motionless.

That’s what hurts him the most.

“Mr. Tomlinson,” Aaron repeats, his eyes flicking back to Louis’ face more than once, like he’s trying to convince himself that all of this is actually happening. He looks completely traumatized, grasping for words with no purchase, and Louis wants to disappear. Someone else _. Anyone else._ “Why are you… what’s happened?”

“Aaron!” Louis almost chokes over the sound of his own voice, watery and broken as he attempts to play stupid, “Well, I’m all done here. Time to get back out there.”

The boy looks almost disgusted with Louis’ enthusiasm. Truth be told, Louis’ not sure why he had thought it would work.

Louis takes a tentative step forward, “Don’t worry, please,” he tries again, placing a hand on Aaron’s still forearm. Louis moves his fingers back and forth along the fabric of his shirt, eyes trained on his movements as he tries to soothe him, “It’s absolutely nothing, okay?” and Aaron doesn’t flinch, thank god, but he doesn't smile either.

And then, “Is it Harry?” 

Louis’ hand stops moving. When his eyes flick up to Aaron’s, the boy backtracks immediately. “I mean, I don’t know—” 

“ _Hey_ , no,” Louis brackets the boy’s shoulders with both hands solemnly, “Nothing’s happened with Harry.” Louis says, and he didn’t even know he had that much energy in him to sound that firm, nodding and releasing some sort of strained laugh.

Louis’ smiling now, and he can see that Aaron is really trying to, but Aaron’s a good lad, a _smart_ lad, and sometimes Louis forgets just how smart he is.

Aaron spots Louis’ mobile, as it lies on the tile forgotten. He blinks.

“Someone’s rang and upset you.” The boy doesn’t say it like a question. He says it like a fact, and Louis considers lying to him, telling him that he’s just overwhelmed with the show, but he decides just as quickly that he can’t. He sees himself in Aaron, has since he met the boy, and he’s tired of lying to himself.

Louis snatches his mobile. “I was just talking to someone from back home.” Louis tells him with a shrug, his hands falling to his sides. Aaron’s eyes widen under his blond fringe, his glare dancing on the edge of understanding and concern.

“Are they okay?” He whispers.

“They’re great.” Louis nods again, clearing his throat in time with the crossing of his arms. Something in Aaron’s eyes flickers then, his body unmoving and awkward. Louis scoffs the front of one dress shoe with the other.

“Are you sure?” Aaron begins, “Because you were…”

“This night is about you, okay?” Louis retorts, his voice slipping into uncharted territory, a pang of anger, and Aaron actually flinches backwards, “You did _so_ well tonight, I don’t want you worried about me.” Louis can feel his palms beginning to sweat, can hear the way Aaron’s breathing has quickened, and—the jig is up.

Louis brushes his hands together in dismissal. “Well, I’ve got to go back out now. I’ll see you out there.” He declares, watching as Aaron’s eyes inevitably fall to his chin. Louis knows it’s quivering, of _course_ it is, but he continues smiling nonetheless.

He pats Aaron on the shoulder as he passes him, and “Mr. Tomlinson—” Aaron starts, but Louis’ already running. 

☆

The crowded room hits Louis like a brick wall.

For a moment he stands still, looking through his surroundings not at them, and “Goddammit, Louis.” he curses to himself, running his hand over his face. It feels like ice on his sweltering skin, threatening to evaporate his veneer instantly, but he bites back the feeling.

Instead, he cuts in front of at least three servers without as much as a nod, winding his way through the endless waves of guests and staff. It’s like he can’t hear anything other than static, see anything other than his table, and as his friends and cast come back into view, laughing and socializing gleefully over their food, adrenaline rushes through Louis’ body.

All he wants is to get back to these people like nothing happened. He wants to get back into the overwhelming warmth he’d been floating in only five minutes ago, to the boy who’d hugged him and spun him around like nothing else mattered in the world, to the closest thing he’s ever felt to actual feeling. 

It’s only when Harry’s eyes look his way that Louis realizes he might not be able to do that.

“Oh, oh! There he is!” Harry is shouting so loudly Louis can feel it in his chest, bubbly and joyful as throws his arm over Gemma’s shoulders, equally bubbly and joyful, “There’s our director!”

Smile painted on, Louis closes the distance between himself and his chair as the entire table turns his way, erupting in some type of short singsong-y cheer over the monotonous roar of the pub.

Zayn is leading the cheer, “Man of the hour!” he proclaims, momentarily breaking away from Liam to raise his glass.

And then, just like that, Louis watches as the table resumes it’s laughter and camaraderie, and he can tell they’re all buzzed, riotous and ecstatic with short attention spans. It’s the same buzz that Louis was feeling ten minutes ago, but has since been ridded of his body.

Louis takes a seat before he loses his balance again. Harry’s already on him.

“Food came,” He says. Louis looks down, the boy’s gesturing to the plates of garnished pasta and chicken wings now before each of them, none of which Louis had noticed, “Smells amazing. We were waiting on you to start.”

Gemma leans over Harry’s lap, wiping her mouth on a napkin, “Right, we _were_ … but then we got hungry and started.”

“Gem!” There’s a slur in Harry’s voice as he shoves his sister’s shoulder exasperatingly, and “What? _Whaaat_?” there’s the same slur in hers, smiles dancing on their lips.

Harry’s hand is on Louis’ knee, like he’s trying to involve Louis while looking solely at his sister, “We _rehearsed_ it, Gem! We _had_ it! _Why_ did you confess to Lou so quick?”

Louis throws on a smile, turning toward his pasta. “I don’t mind.” He says honestly, sounding emptier than he would’ve liked, but Harry’s attention has already returned to his sister, his hand sliding from Louis’ leg.

“Gem, we were doing _so_ good.”

“Did you see the look on his face?”

“No… we had it.”

“He looked like he was about to _cry_ —I had to tell him…”

Louis picks up his cutlery. His gaze is fixed on his food, but he can’t seem to eat. Each breath is making him more and more nauseated, the room feeling warmer after each second, brighter each time he blinks, louder every time he swallows, until—Harry’s hand is back on his knee.

“You’re not upset about us starting without you, are you?” He asks, quieter and earnestly, and it takes a considerable amount of energy for Louis to look his way.

When he does, he notices that Gemma’s begun chatting with Emilie, the rest of the table broken up into small conversations too, which has done nothing but leave Harry’s full attention to rest on Louis.

Louis hates it. “I don’t mind.” He repeats.

Harry tilts his head a little. Louis can see the wheels turning in his foggy mind. “Yeah?” He’s speaking like there’s no one else at the table, like he can’t hear or see anything else, “You do look kind of upset, though.”

Louis stabs a noodle. He drags it around on his plate to waste time, “I’m not…” he pauses, there’s a door opening across the pub—the door to the men’s toilets. 

Harry doesn’t seem to notice. “You’re not…?”

Louis looks back, nearly forgetting entirely, “I’m not upset.” he finishes.

Until, “Oh, he’s back!” Zayn shouts from down the table, raising his glass like he’d done for Louis moments ago, “Let’s hear it for the _Pumpkin King_!”

The table erupts into the same riotous cheering as before, glasses clinking and full-mouths whooping, and it’s enough to tear Harry’s attention away. Louis merely watches as Aaron raises a hand in acknowledgment, weaving his way through the tables and servers, but as he takes his seat, it becomes painfully clear what’s missing from his grand return.

He isn’t smiling—he’s a staring directly at Louis.

“Oh, I’m sorry, do you not go by _Pumpkin King_ anymore?” Zayn eggs him on. Aaron doesn’t budge. The table runs with it anyway.

“It’s _Mr. Skellington_ to you, Zayn!”

“Oh my god, he’s stone cold!”

“Look at his face!”

The table erupts in laughter once again, filling Aaron’s silence with oblivious hilarity, and he hasn’t looked away from Louis, not once, almost like he never will. With those blue eyes staring daggers at Louis, it might just be the most powerful thing Louis’ ever felt, but he’s staring back at Aaron too, he doesn’t look away, even when he feels the tears welling up in his eyes, like he’s _daring_ Aaron to say something.

Only because Louis knows he won’t.

Aaron smiles. Ripping his gaze away from Louis, “ _Stone cold_?” he gawks down the table, entertaining their drunkenness, “Is that how it is?” 

Louis exhales all at once, returning his attention back to his food. All he can hear is his heartbeat in his ears, loud and fast, as he sinks further into his seat and less into the conversations around him.

“Hey, Lou?”

A moment passes.

“Lou.”

Another moment.

“ _Hey_ …” Then there’s a hand on Louis and he startles, inhaling sharply as he drops his fork. The metal clinks against his plate, drawing the attention of a few cast members, but Harry’s already recovered, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Louis looks up at him then, sliding his hand out from under Harry’s. Harry notices this. He looks down the table momentarily, before mumbling under his breath, “What’s Aaron on about? I can’t be the only one who saw that.”

“I don’t know,” Louis lies, “Just plastered, probably.”

There’s a silence between them. When Louis looks up again, something’s changed in the boy’s face. It’s fear rushing through his green eyes, removing any indication of drunkenness in seconds. 

“Lou,” Louis can hear the distress in his voice, see it in the way Harry has leaned into him, “You’d tell me if something happened, right?”

Louis can’t say he likes this tone on Harry. It makes it harder to lie to him. Louis really should’ve left when he had the chance.

“Nothing’s happened.” He lies.

Harry takes it with a grain of salt. “Did you say something to him in the toilet?”

“No.”

“You didn’t see him at all?”

“I saw him.”

Harry won’t seem to give it up either, liquid courage, “And you didn’t say anything?”

“Nothing important, no.”

“Really?”

Louis doesn’t bother.

So Harry does, “Lou, I’m just _—_ ”

Louis shoves his plate forward, sliding back in his seat, “ _Fuck_ —would you drop it?” he bites though gritted teeth, “Not everything is about you.”

“Oh, I wasn’t... uh,” Harry swallows sharply, cutting himself off as the words finally sink in, and maybe Zayn looks down the table for a second, “I’m not trying to…”

Louis casts his eyes downward in exasperation when Harry trails off, ignoring the look of hurt on Harry’s face. He can tell that the table is growing quieter and quieter, that cast member after cast member are slowly beginning to notice a shift in Louis’ attitude—the _lack_ of Louis’ energetic voice at the table. He avoids their eyes.

But Louis can’t avoid Harry’s eyes, can’t avoid the heat he feels as Harry scans his profile, and in that very moment, one thing becomes clear: if Harry were smart, he _would_ drop it.

“Are you done eating?” is what Harry goes for.

Louis hands ball up into fists, “Yes.” and he’s running a hand over his mouth, his jaw going slack. He can feel his blood beginning to boil, his eyebrow furrowing, and if the boy speaks _one more bloody time_ , he’s going to lose it.

“Want me to box it?”

Louis stands to his feet, his chair screeching horribly as it’s pushed back in an instant. And now, the table is silent.

Startled expressions paint the faces of each and every guest, from sadness in Aaron’s eyes to confusion in Zayn’s, Gemma throwing a hand over her mouth. With forkfuls of food hanging motionless in the air, pints frozen against mouths, no one says a word. Not even Harry.

And for the first time in Louis’ life, his legs don’t fail when he needs them the most. He’s rushing out of the pub without looking back.

The table quickly breaks into stunned panic.

“What the—”

“Louis?”

“Harry…”

Harry stands to his feet a second later, laying his napkin onto his plate, and “No, Harry, I think Zayn should…” Liam begins, pushing at his boyfriend’s shoulder hurriedly, but Zayn doesn’t move. Because he’s too busy staring at the door, motionless and unbreathing, before he turns his head toward Harry.

“He told you, right?” Zayn asks bluntly, like there’s no one else in the room.

Harry’s feet stall on the floor, “What? No, I have no idea what’s going on.” he breathes, barely ripping his eyes away from the door. Liam’s mouth opens and closes, his hand still on Zayn’s arm.

Zayn’s eyes are trained on Harry though, barely a waver in his voice, “Harry.” he says sternly, but Harry’s already busied himself with grabbing his coat, tossing Louis’ coat over his shoulder too as he pushes in his chair.

Zayn leans across the table and grabs his arm. And, “ _What_?” Harry meets his eyes, glancing back and forth between Zayn’s and the door, “What are you saying?”

“The last day of school before summer holidays.” Zayn says.

There’s a silence between them.

Harry blinks. Zayn swallows lightly. “The last day…” Harry repeats, and then, slowly but surely, realization floods his eyes like a tidal wave, doubt never once crossed Zayn’s mind, “You think it’s…”

“Go after him.” Zayn says, releasing the fabric of his coat.

☆

“Go away.” Louis says when a figure appears in the doorway.

“Lou?”

Louis can’t actually see him all too well, he’d only turned on the map during the maddening task of entering his flat, but the sounds of Harry’s feet on the hardwood are unmistakable.

“Seriously?” Louis drones.

“What’s going—”

“Stop.”

“Stop what?” Harry is before him now, and Louis actually takes a moment to make out the forms of his face.

There is moonlight streaking over his cheekbones, soft and pale, and Louis can’t help but notice that his usual scent has been washed out by the sobering smell of cold and wind. As he pushes his unruly curls out of his face, his eyes are dark with what Louis knows is pure concern.

Probably most evident of all, though, is the rising and falling of the boy’s chest. It’s faster than Louis can keep track. Maybe he’s nervous, maybe he’s _ran_ there—Louis wouldn’t be surprised, the boy is mad—and it only makes Louis want to cry harder. He looks like he’s been through hell.

And the whole thing is stupid, _so_ stupid—that Louis is genuinely upset about good news, and that Harry is even here. The boy should be with the people he loves, obnoxiously loud and profusely happy and enjoying the every damn second of the evening because that’s what they _deserve_. Louis is aware of that, obviously; he’s aware of the foolishness of what’s happening, but he can’t seem to emote anything other than anger and self-pity. 

“You didn’t pick up your mobile, Lou,” Harry murmurs, running his hand over the back of his neck before adding, “I had no idea where you were going, let alone if you made it there in one piece,” Louis just stares at him. Harry continues. “It’s freezing out there, Lou, and you left upset—”

“I took a taxi,” He cuts him off. Harry’s hand drops from his neck and lets out a small, frustrated sound. His eyes drop to the floor momentarily and Louis swallows, “ _God_ , why are you even here? Would you just go?”

“Lou,” He reaches out to Louis, but his body comes to a sharp halt when Louis draws his knees up to his chest. There’s a pause, Harry’s lips form a stiff line, and then he murmurs, “Tell me what’s going on.”

He says it like he’s prohibited access to Louis’ mind, careful and fearful of rejection, and that honestly frustrates Louis. It’s like Harry’s tiptoeing around him, worried about getting too close or staying too far, like Louis is erratic and volatile and somewhere along the line Harry became scared of him.

Louis hates this.

He wants to scream.

Still, despite the orders Louis isn’t even sure he meant, Harry unzips his jacket and takes a step forward, his shins butting against the sofa. That, combined with the sound of the zipper colliding with the wood of the coffee table, rips Louis from his thoughts and shoves him back into reality. Back to Harry.

“I’m serious,” It’s only then that Louis spots the black shape sitting loosely in Harry’s hands, and his eyebrows actually furrow. Then it clicks. “If that’s my fucking pasta, I swear­ to god.”

Harry lets out a sharp breath, shifting his weight onto the opposite foot. “Your _coat_ ,” Harry interrupts, eyeing Louis for the go-ahead before he places the folded fabric on the cushion beside Louis’ arm, Louis didn’t even notice he’d left it behind, “Go on.”

Louis actually scoffs at that, covering his eyes with his cold hand and then running it down his cheeks.

“Go on about what? _Why_ would I waste time going into detail about this, just so that you might be able to understand what’s going on?” Louis pauses only to take a breath, “You won’t be able to, is what’s going to happen.”

Louis lets his hand fall from his face when he hears no response, and he’s surprised to see that Harry is no longer standing. Instead, he’s taken a seat beside Louis—wordlessly and gently, Louis notes, considering he never felt the sofa dip at all—with his elbows resting on his knees and his hands pressed against his lips. He isn’t even looking at Louis, eyes fixed on something other than him, and he’s so still that Louis’ beginning to lose him in the darkness.

“That’s not fair.” Harry says eventually, leaning back into the sofa and slowly turning his head towards Louis, but his voice hasn’t risen and his fists aren’t clenched and Louis absolutely _hates_ it.

He’s calm and collected and bloody polite and Louis wants to _argue._ He wants grit his teeth and clench his fists as broken thoughts and faulty claims fly back and forth between them, stripping him of the hatred he feels inside, until tears are streaming down his cheeks and his body is so tired that he couldn’t continue even if he wanted to.

Feeling nothing would be better than feeling like this.

“Yeah? Life’s not fair.” Louis spits as he turns his torso to face the boy, hands flying and throat stinging.

Harry barely flinches. “Lou. You told me what happened. I can help—”

“So what if I did!” Louis shouts, a little louder than he had intended, “Doesn’t mean you _understand_. You’ve only known me for what—a few months?” He doesn’t stop there, of course he doesn’t, “You know _shit_ about me, Harry, and it’s about time you realized that. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into!”

The entire room silences. Even the monotone hum of the refrigerator seems to have stopped.

And then, “I’m sorry, Lou.”

Louis doesn’t reply, mostly because Harry apologizing might be the dumbest thing he’s ever heard, until he realizes that it’s actually _not_.

Louis’ whole body freezes.

He’s halfway through backpedaling when Harry’s thumb begins to trace nonsensical circles on Louis’ knee. It’s a gesture that would’ve easily gone unnoticed on a regular day, but now, with every stupid and painfully gentle turn, Louis can hear him saying _it’s okay_ , like he’s comforting Louis even after his outburst, because that’s the kind of bloke he is _._ Louis snapped at him, called him out for helping, and Harry still understands.

Louis doesn’t even realize he’s crying until he feels Harry’s thumb swipe gently under his eye.

“Fuck, I’m sorry.” Louis mumbles finally before turning his face into Harry’s hand. For a second, Louis gets lost in how gentle the touch is. Harry’s skin is warm and soft and comforting against his own, and he doesn’t fall back into reality until the hand has been pulled away. Louis hopes that his words come across with just as much sincerity as he felt in that touch.

“It’s okay—”

“She’s getting married. New Year’s Eve.” Louis says it so fast he wouldn’t be surprised if it registered in Harry’s mind before his own. And it does, by the looks of it, as Harry’s jaw falls open slightly the second the words leave Louis’ mouth.

“Your mum?”

“Linda,” Louis corrects, “Yes.”

“That’s…” Harry starts, but no further sound comes out. He just stares at Louis, like he’s searching for words, putting sentences together, and then ripping them apart just as quickly.

“It’s great, Harry,” Louis supplies, like poison dripping from his tongue, “It’s great news.”

Harry shakes his head and Louis’ eyes are immediately drawn to his soft curve of his mouth, as he’s chewing on the inside of his cheek, and by the time Louis’ eyes return to his, Harry’s eyebrows have furrowed.

“She rang you,” He begins, piecing together his thoughts, “And this time Aaron caught the end of it,” Louis watches him closely, eyeing the way his features fall when he adds, “Lou, you should’ve told me.”

Louis almost laughs at that, “And then do _this_ at the pub?” he shakes his head, “I already made enough of a scene.”

Harry still doesn’t seem convinced, he looks frustrated, “What else did she say?”

“She wants me to go to the wedding. Meet the groom, walk her down the aisle—the works.”

Something in Harry’s eyes flickers then, but Louis’ too exhausted to overthink it. He begins pulling at the blanket as Harry whispers, “And you’re going to go?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Louis scoffs. “Why _would_ I, Harry? I’m not close with her.”

“ _That’s_ why,” He points out, Louis knew he would, and the boy leans forward slightly before adding, “And she needs you. She’s been ringing and texting you for _months_.”

“I’m not going, Harry.” Louis can feel his blood beginning to boil once again, can see it in the way Harry’s body has retreated slightly but his hands are still searching for Louis’, but Louis doesn’t stop himself. Not yet.

“I think it would—”

“ _Bloody hell_ , I said—” Louis cuts him off, throwing his hands out in front himself, but Harry cuts him off too, by grabbing his wrists.

“You can’t run from this, Lou. They’re getting married. This man is going to be in Linda’s life, in the girls’ lives, in _your_ life. No matter who she decides to be with, they’ll always your bloody _family_ , Lou,” he brings Louis’ wrists together gently, sliding his hands up and over Louis’ fists, engulfing them in the heat of his palms, he squeezes, “And it kills me to see you throw them all away like this, just because of _him_ , when they haven’t even gotten the chance to reconnect with you.”

Louis just stares at his hands with tear-blurry vision. They’re clasped in Harry’s, soaked in him, protected and secure, and as much as Louis absolutely hates himself for it, he knows the rapid beating in his ears is just another bit of him the boy has claimed.

And then, “Are you even _listening_ to yourself?” Louis rips himself away from Harry furiously, startling the boy, “She threw me away for _him_ , for someone she _knew_ was tearing us apart, she willingly chose him over protecting us—protecting _me_ —even when I looked up at her from the floor with blood in my eyes. She wasn’t even _bothered_!”

“And she was _so_ wrong,” Harry’s voice has risen now, but Louis knows he’s only trying to keep the floodgates closed. He looks scared, scared of Louis, when he stammers, “But that’s why you need to go back. She was a _victim_ , just like you—”

“ _Don’t_ fucking victimize me.”

“—and he was all she knew. _He_ was what she thought was right. But he’s gone now and she’s different now, Lou, you’re different now— _everything_ is different now. You have to give her a chance.”

“She had _too many_ chances!” Louis yells, accidentally swatting his coat off the sofa. The fabric crashes into the coffee table, draping over the books and records, knocking some to the floor. Louis barely even hears it.

Not even five seconds of silence pass before Harry’s shifting forward on the sofa, probably to pick them up, _bloody hell_ , Louis opens his mouth before the boy can.

“Would you stop being _so bloody polite_ for just a second!” Louis shrieks. Harry’s head darts back towards him, his body freezing in place. But, somehow, he looks completely neutral; unfazed while Louis’ unhinged, and Louis lets out the most guttural sound he thinks he’s ever made. 

Then Louis’ tears fall.

Harry doesn’t touch him this time.

They sit like that for what feels like hours, the sounds between them switching from laboured breaths and strained outbursts to silence and whimpering. Louis hates the sound of himself crying, falling apart before the very person who keeps him together, but he would hate it even more if the boy tried to help. Louis feels like his skin would burn if Harry touched him.

So, like Louis’ made of glass and Harry expects his words to shatter him into a thousand pieces, “Enough chances to let your little sisters grow up without their brother?” Harry asks.

Louis can’t even shake his head. He can’t even look up from his tear-stained sleeves.

Harry continues, speaking into the darkness, “Do you really think she’ll choose him over your sisters?”

_Yes._

“And they’ll be hurt all over again?”

 _A_ _million times, yes._

Louis flicks his eyes up but leaves his head hang, eyeing the way the boy has tucked his hands under his thighs, restraining himself, like it’s physically paining him not to run his fingers over Louis’ cheeks. 

And then he’s staring into the boy’s eyes, “I don’t… know.” Louis whispers.

Resolve floods Harry’s eyes instantaneously, “Don’t let him, Lou.” he whispers.

Louis shuts his eyes, and the world goes silent. There’s no more beating in his ears, or rushing in his veins, or stinging in his throat. There’s only Louis—young and old, happy and sad, strong and weak. Only now, he gets to choose which one he wants to be.

“What are you afraid of?”

And suddenly, Louis doesn’t even know.

He’s afraid of his dad—of the monster his mum said he wouldn’t become but became, of how easily he managed to plant himself into her heart and root there, of how he sucked all the life from her like some sort of parasite that she couldn’t cure.

He’s afraid of his mum—of the once strong woman who broke down at the first sign of trouble, of how easily she became insignificant to him, of how quickly she became sonless.

He’s afraid of himself—of the way he left his family behind, of how easily he lost sight of himself, of how he can feel it happening all over again.

He’s afraid of being afraid.

“Lou?” Harry’s voice suddenly feels small compared to the large room around them.

Louis opens his eyes. “You should’ve left.”

At least a minute passes before Harry even acknowledges Louis’ words.

“Do you want me to?” He asks.

For a moment, he wonders what it would be like if Harry stayed. Maybe if Harry held him long enough, everything would wash away. Harry would make him believe that he’s being stupid, that everything really _has_ changed, before remind him of all the things he should have never lost sight of in the first place.

He decides just as quickly how hopeless that would be.

“Yes.” Louis exhales.

Harry wastes no time in standing to his feet, placing a small kiss to the top of Louis’ head. He’s in the foyer and fiddling with the doorknob before Louis even looks his way. He’s gone before Louis even fathoms his words.

Louis can’t help but wonder if this is the moment where he pushes everything aside and chases after him.

It doesn't happen.

☆

The door opens again maybe five minutes later, and for a moment Louis thinks Harry has come back. But then he hears his best mate’s voice.

“Tommo?”

It actually takes a considerable about of effort for Louis to turn his head and make eye contact with Zayn, and the second he does, Zayn runs a hand over his mouth.

“ _Oh_ , Tommo.” He isn’t even discreet about it. Louis knows he looks like shit, he’s sure of it, all swollen and red and gross, but he still didn’t need the confirmation. 

Zayn crosses the room slowly, taking a seat next to Louis, and the smell of beer, burgers, and a rather enjoyable night out immediately fills the space between them. Louis’ eyes trail up and down Zayn’s face, from his flattened quiff to the sauce stains on his wrinkled dress shirt, and he almost smiles. Also, Louis is suddenly aware of how hungry he is.

“You’re judging me, stop judging me.” Zayn says, and it takes a second for Louis’ mind to switch back into the situation at hand.

“I’m not judging you. Why would I judge you?” Louis coughs into the back of his hand, a weak smile forming on his lips. Not a _guilty_ smile, he truly isn’t judging the boy. There’s just something about Zayn that makes Louis feel a little happier.

The boy scoots back from him, positively appalled. “You’re totally judging me. Look at you! Louis!” Zayn’s pleas are washed away as Louis begins to chuckle, shaking his head in defeat.

“What, do you want me to change? Am I not good enough for you? Do you judge _all_ your mates like this?”

“No,” Louis is practically gasping for air now, lungs and throat still burning, watching Zayn place his hand over his chest in disgust. Louis places his own hand over his eyes, and adds, “You’re mad.”

“I’m glad we sorted that out.”

“Me too.” Louis breathes, and when he removes his hand, Zayn has returned to his usual spot beside him, staring up at the ceiling with his forearm balancing on his forehead.

Even in the dim lighting there is no masking the concern on his features. “Did you talk to him?” He asks.

A moment passes.

Louis leans his head back next to him. Zayn flattens out his shirt with his free hand. They exhale in unison, staring at the dents and scratches in the ceiling. Soon enough, silence fills the space between them, and Louis can hear his heart beating in his ears.

Louis gives it up.

“I told him what happened last year.”

“I know.”

Louis turns his head toward Zayn in an instant, his eyebrows furrowing, “He told you?”

Zayn pulls his bottom lip in between his teeth slowly, almost peacefully, “You don’t love someone for fifteen years and not know.”

Louis scoffs at that, however half-heartedly, before turning back toward the ceiling. He lets the silence answer for him, mostly because he can’t think of a single thing to say.

Zayn can though. “I’m retiring, you see. My job’s over.”

Louis whole-heartedly scoffs at that, “Your _job_? Are you high?”

“Unfortunately not,” Zayn’s smiling, Louis can hear it in his voice, until he loses it entirely, “I’ve tried everything to help rebuild you, and as much as I wanted to be the one to do it—it’s him.”

Louis opens his mouth to protest, to laugh it off again, but he falls victim to the same bout of silence. And it’s heavier this time, it sits on Louis’ chest and holds him down, the lack of sound between them saying more than words ever could.

Zayn sighs lightly. Louis sighs too.

And, “Now, what the fuck happened tonight?” Zayn breathes.

Louis wastes no time. “Linda’s getting married.”

He can actually feel Zayn’s pity smile, and if the boy felt any type of shock, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he pulls the blanket out from under Louis’ leg and drapes the fabric over them both.

He shifts his hips a little, tucking his arm around Louis’ waist, and even while the motion feels so familiar—he’s seen Zayn do this exact thing thousands of times by now—maybe its familiarity is what he loves most about Zayn. He always knows exactly how to react. 

He just holds Louis.

Ages pass before Zayn even dares to comment on Louis’ words, and when he finally does, Louis’ half asleep and a lot more relaxed than he’s been all night.

“What did he say?”

Louis exhales lightly, tucking his face into Zayn’s shoulder, “He said that I can’t run from this, that I need to go to the wedding. Things are different now, and if I don’t give her a chance, I’ll always be throwing away any means of reconnecting with my family.”

Louis feels the boy’s grip loosen. It’s as if he sinks into the sofa as he takes a breath, “And?” he asks.

“And I screamed at him.”

It’s then that Zayn laughs, loudly and pitifully, the sound dripping with sympathy as it reaches Louis’ ears. His shoulder shakes against Louis’ cheek.

“He’s right, you know.”

Louis shuts his eyes, sniffling into the back of his hand.

Zayn’s arms tighten around Louis’ waist, “He’s _smart_ , too. You don’t have to worry about him.”

“I can’t help but feel like he has _no idea_ what he’s getting himself into,” Louis can feel his eyes welling with tears, so wipes them on Zayn’s shirt, “I just—I needed time and everywhere I looked, there he was. I was so bloody _livid_ I couldn’t even breathe.”

Zayn doesn’t seem to notice. “This might shock you, Tommo, but I think it’s fair to say he _loves_ you—he was in love with you before he even met you,” Zayn pauses when Louis exhales, watery and shaky, he feels like he’s been underwater for years, “Loving someone means accepting everything that comes along with them, nurturing the good and outgrowing the bad.”

A moment passes.

A long, long moment.

And, “ _God_ —I caused a fucking scene tonight, didn’t I? And in front of Gemma too.” Louis hates how whiny he sounds, but Zayn doesn’t seem to mind all that much. The boy just inhales slowly, not as if he’s drawn a blank but as if he’s trying to condense his thoughts. He squeezes Louis even tighter.

“Her and Emilie were asking to do body shots not five minutes after you bailed. I think they’re fine. As for the rest, they’re drama majors four pints past plastered. I don’t think they minded the theatricality.”

Louis exhales all at once, rolling his eyes at the boy. He’s a bastard, but Louis knows what he means. And it helps.

Zayn merely laughs in response, his laughter quickly morphing into a yawn. It’s then that Louis realizes how late it must be. He slowly pulls himself out of the boy’s grasp.

“We should sleep.” Louis says, peering into his amber eyes through the darkness. He looks exhausted. All Louis wants is to thank Zayn, say something, _anything_ , because Louis knows how different this evening would have been without him. But words seem pathetic now, and Louis doesn’t know how to reciprocate anything even remotely worthy of the never-ending list of things Zayn does without reward.

Zayn smiles back as if he’s saying _you’re welcome_ , and Louis really should have known—he always knows what Louis’ thinking.

“It’s a good idea,” Zayn comments after he’s shimmied out of the blankets. Louis watches as he stretches out his limbs and yawns again, before outstretching his hand, “Walk you to bed, director?” he asks, a hint of theatricality laced in his voice.

“Sure,” Louis takes it, and then catches a glimpse of the textbooks that had fallen to the floor under his strewn coat. He hesitates, and “Actually, I’ll be right up. I’m gonna clean this up.” Louis whispers to the boy, who’s already begun to make his way toward the stairs.


	15. Chapter Fifteen

Louis wakes up with the worst headache.

Staring up at the ceiling with watery eyes, it’s a splitting one—all through his temples and down into his sinuses, throbbing in time with the beating of his heart.

For a moment, Louis wonders if this is the end. And then he remembers the wonders of modern medicine. He’s up to his feet and stumbling into the kitchen before he even rubs the sleep from his eyes.

The early morning light far too golden and vivid for his liking. It’s stinging his eyes and harsh on his head, and with clenched fists, he makes a beeline for the medicine cabinet beside the fridge.

He yanks the door open and reaches inside. Letting his fingers trail along the bottle tops, he stops on a familiarly shaped lid. Then, he’s swiping it and unscrewing it weakly, resting his back up against the island with his head hung low.

That’s when he hears it.

He stops.

It’s mumbled at first, nothing more than the monotonous hum of voices and coughing, until Louis cranes his neck and spots them.

Through the sliding glass pane of the balcony door, there are two people sitting in rod iron chairs, bundled up in their coats as the early morning sun peaks through the skyline. Louis can’t see their faces, only the frost-smeared outline of their profiles, but he can see that they’re talking. They look deep in concentration, barely moving as the wind rustles the fabric of their coats.

And as the lit joint is passed between them, Louis feels his stomach drop. Zayn doesn’t just share his pot with anyone.

And Louis must’ve made a noise, because then both Harry and Zayn are turning toward the glass, Harry’s reddened eyes locking on Louis immediately. Harry stands from his chair, as Zayn’s gaze bridge the gap, his lips miming something in the neighbourhood of _oh, shit_ through the icy glass.

And _no_ —this is not happening today.

Louis is tripping over the island and darting toward the staircase before he even hears the door slide open.

“Louis,” The door’s metallic slam ricochets through the flat, but it’s not the voice he was expecting. When Louis’ feet unwillingly lock in place, it’s as if the sound has gotten to the staircase first and blocked his way, like a punch to the stomach, “ _Tommo_ , slow down.” 

Louis shuts his eyes. His hands ball into fists.

Zayn stops running too, “I was smoking and he came by to drop off some sweets,” he’s breathing quickly, grittily, and Louis can feel his presence nearly three feet behind his back. Zayn doesn’t dare touch him, “He was on his way back from the train station. That’s all.”

And _of course,_ he did. Louis really should have guessed it.

He squeezes the medicine bottle, “Looks like he was doing more than a drop off,” he would love to see the guilt in Zayn’s eyes right about now, something to _finally_ taint the gleaming perfection Louis has envied for so many years, “ _God_. I said I _needed time_ , can’t you see how embarrassing this is for me? I thought you understood.”

So, maybe Louis’ lowballing him. Maybe he deserves it. Maybe Zayn’s too far in Louis’ head to let comments like that slide, “I didn’t ask him over, Tommo. He came over on his own, _thoughtfully_ , I might add,” Louis covers his face with his hand as the boy continues, “And I wasn’t about to send him off. I thought you’d be sleeping much later than this, anyway.”

“I have a headache. Why aren’t you at work?” Is what he goes with, still having not turned around, because he knows Harry is on the other side of the balcony doors, looming behind his best mate’s back.

“Late start. Cold weather and ice advisory.”

“ _Cold weather and ice_ —since when?” Louis’ eyes flick towards the nearest pane of glass, in the foyer across the flat, where stark white light is coating the window like paint.

The boy clears his throat. “I know. No one knows where it came from.”

Louis’ lived in England all this life and has never once experienced any type of _weather advisory—_ and now he’s left to wonder how they managed their outdoor chat at all, if there are actual people advising them not to go outside. A lapful of pastries and a lungful of pot cannot possibly be that efficient.

Louis closes his eyes. “Well, have fun,” He deadpans, holding up the medicine bottle for emphasis, “I’m going to sleep.”

Louis makes it all the way to the bottom of the staircase before hearing the boy’s voice again.

“Turn around.”

Louis does nothing of the sort. So, naturally, Zayn does it for him. Gripping Louis’ shoulders a little to forcibly, “ _Fuck off_ —” Louis tries, but “Here,” Zayn interrupts, shoving a folded newspaper against Louis’ chest.

Louis freezes instantly.

Then, “Read it, maybe.” Zayn murmurs, walking back toward the balcony.

☆

“Did you get lost? Only took you _nine_ _hours_.”

It’d been two and a half.

Still, Harry shoves his key into the lock, unlatching his dorm with his back to Niall. His hands are still shaking from the cold, red and chapped, “Sorry, I stopped by Arch’s on the way home.”

“Oh?” Niall comments, and he can hear the boy lean against his doorframe, feel him eyeing his back with a smirk, “They’re selling pot now?”

Harry presses his knee against the wood. The door swings open but he doesn’t move with it, he stands still, his head hanging.

“I stopped by Louis’ too.”

“Oh.”

A moment passes.

Niall’s the first to speak.

“Did you see him?” He asks.

“Through frosted glass and over Zayn’s shoulder, yes.”

Harry waits at least five seconds before turning around, mostly because he’d never hear the end of it if he walked into his dorm and shut the door behind himself right now.

When he meets Niall’s eyes, there’s something unfamiliar staring back at him, sympathy, “Bro, you were there all night.”

He fiddles with his dorm keys. “I know.” He mumbles, his voice barely trailing across the width of the hallway.

“And it’s not like that visit went well.”

“I know.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Niall pushes off his doorframe, shoving his hands into his pockets, “Arch is great, but I don’t think it fixes everything.”

Harry smiles at that, however slightly, before running a hand over his face. To be fair, he didn’t even realize what he was doing until he was standing at the door, windblown and winded, Arch in-hand.

Harry had immediately run a hand over his face the second Zayn opened the door, apologizing frantically, but Zayn didn’t pay much attention to it. He merely stepped aside and gestured for Harry to come in, it was too cold to go home just yet, anyway.

“God, I’m an idiot.” Harry exhales.

Niall smiles too. “But you’re my idiot.”

“Even worse.”

“Okay,” Niall crowds his space then, shrugging his shoulders like he’s got everything under control, “I’m going to ignore that personal attack and help you instead.”

Harry’s eyes remain glued to his hands the entire time, exhaling lightly when the boy stops a second later, his shoes butting up against Harry’s.

“Listen to me. Are you listening?”

Harry looks up then. Niall’s face is inches from his, his hands resting on his hips, “If I know anything about the boy at all, he’s too taken up with you to stay mad forever. He just needs time to get over whatever you did.”

Harry smiles at that, just as Niall does, a more familiar shit-eating glint returning to his blue eyes. And if this were _really_ about Harry pissing Louis off and then showing up the very next morning, Harry would be feeling a lot better right now. Because behind the smirk, there is actual sincerity laced in his best mate’s words, a rarity in of itself—it’s just more complicated than that.

Niall’s stepping back before Harry has the time to respond.

“Right,” He glances down at his mobile before pocking it, running a hand through his hair, “Cass is downstairs. I gotta go, but I’ll leave my dorm open.”

Harry nods back at him, swallowing lightly.

“Thank you.” He says.

Niall laughs, beginning down the hall with a theatrical turn, “You’re welcome, bro.”

☆

Louis stares at the bundle of paper for the next half hour until he finally gives in.

It’s an article written by another member of UToday—full of words Louis didn’t want to hear, unflattering photos the cast will rally to take down, and soppy quotes Harry couldn’t have possibly said:

_Above is a photo of Louis Tomlinson (left) and Harry Styles (right), both very important pieces in creating and documenting The Nightmare Before Christmas._

_Upon viewing the photo, Styles smiled as he recollected the evening, “It took a village. For all of three months, everyone worked so diligently... I’m sure all the student journalists, including myself, enjoyed every moment of reporting it. But without [Tomlinson]? Well, I don’t know where the musical would be.”_

Louis hates it.

He hates every word.

He also hates the trip to the balcony after he’s heard Harry leave, the sound of the glass pane as it slides open, and the sight of Zayn, all bundled up on the rod iron with a steaming cuppa in his hands, like his best mate hasn’t just deemed himself Largest Almost-Excusable Prick Of The Century.

He _especially_ hates when the words fall from his lips, laced in his frozen breath, “I’m sorry.” he says.

Zayn barely even moves.

Instead, he gives Louis a backward glance, “What’s that?” and raises an eyebrow.

Did Louis mention he hates this? “I said,” Louis grits, a lot less gritty coming out than it is in his head, “I am sorry.”

A moment passes. “In that case,” Zayn gestures to the seat next to him as he offers his mug to Louis’ crossed arms. “I am, too.”

Another moment passes. Louis takes it. He sits down.

“Look—” Louis starts, after having swallowed a sip of the dark liquid, but Zayn interrupts him, “Save it. It’s on me. I never meant for you to feel ambushed.” he says.

That takes Louis off guard. Suddenly, he’s being spoon-fed sincerity, and that’s never been something he couldn’t palate, but it’s also never been something Zayn dished out. And after having been force-fed the worst news possible less than twelve hours ago, then the worst surprise visit as a wakeup call, it’s a whole lot of unfamiliar happening all at the same time. 

And Zayn’s bleeding remorse doesn’t help either, “Just thinking about what happened back home is enough to sort me out. It’s a _massive_ deal, Louis, and I shouldn’t be treating you like it isn’t. It was shit of me to undermine your feelings entirely.”

“Well, that’s… well,” Louis has run out of words to say. He pauses, gathering his thoughts, “I didn’t mean to snap at you. He was doing a nice thing, so were you. I’m just, you know, it’s hard for me to…”

“I know,” Zayn interrupts, and maybe something flashes across his eyes then, but he brushes it away just as quickly, “I’ve only ever always been on your side, Tommo.”

Louis knows.

A moment passes.

It’s Zayn’s voice that finally breaks the silence, “Here,” Louis looks up from his hands to the Arch take-away box gripped in Zayn’s, “Trade ya. Have one of the white-looking ones. They’re great.”

The corner of Louis’ mouth quirks upward, and “Thank you.” he passes Zayn’s mug back to him, before gripping a tiny ball of white powder.

Zayn nods appreciatively as Louis takes a bite of the doughnut, nothing but the sound of distant sirens and blowing wind between them.

Then Zayn’s hand is on top of his.

And Louis knows what he has to do.

☆

“What has it been, _sixteen_ hours?”

“Niall, please. Is he—”

“That’s really something, y’know? Can’t even fight for a full day.”

“ _Lou_?” A voice calls from inside Niall’s dorm, nearly causing the blond to slam the door in shock. Instead, Niall sighs forlornly into the inch of space between the door and the doorframe, placing his forehead on the wood.

He yanks the door open fully. “I was going for the disappointed father defending his daughter, if you couldn’t tell.”

“Hey, Harry.” Louis says as they lock eyes, the boy sitting in Niall’s bed, his laptop beside him. Harry’s eyes look redder than earlier, his cheeks flushed with their usual rosy tone, now crisp and real without the blurring of the glass. He looks exhausted and cold.

“Hey, Lou.” He says.

And, “Well isn’t this nice?” Niall comments, propping his hands up on his hips as he looks between the two of them, and honestly, Louis forgot he was still there. 

He breaks his eye contact with Harry, and “Uh, Niall?” Louis whispers, “Can we have a second?”

It seems Niall has to break his eye contact, too. “Right. It’s not my dorm or anything,” He scoops up his mobile from his desk and heads toward the door, a smile dancing across his fair features, “Have fun. I won’t be listening through the door.”

The door slams behind him.

Louis turns back. “Right, so—”

“I’m so sorry about this morning.”

Louis stops. “ _No_ , you’re not allowed to say that. That’s what I came here to say.”

Harry laughs choppily into his sleeve, running his hand over his eyes. “God, I’m sorry.”

“Stop!” Louis shouts amicably, stomping in place like a proper toddler, arms crossed over his chest, “No more apologies. I am the prick here, listen to me.”

Harry looks up then. He looks impossibly young.

Louis crosses the space between them, sitting on the edge of the small bed, “I said a lot of mean and untrue things,” he starts, watching the boy’s eyes bounce back and forth between his own, “I’ve been alone in this for so long, I couldn’t imagine how to handle it in the open. So, I pushed you away, and I’m sorry.”

Harry doesn’t speak. Louis continues. “I was so caught up in my own shit, I nearly lost sight of you. _You_ , Harry—the only person who I’ve ever opened up to, who was only there to help,” Louis clears his throat in time with Harry, “I told you about my past for a reason. I told you because I trust you.”

It’s only then that Harry reacts, silently looking away as he blinks into the space between them. He nods almost incredulously, as if Louis’ words are entering his mind and then exiting right away, or maybe he’s just relieved to finally have heard Louis take responsibility.

Either way, “So, if you’ll have me, I’d like to go back to the way things were.” Louis finishes.

Harry turns his way then, and Louis can actually see the warmth returning to his eyes. He wasn’t sure if it would ever come back.

And before Louis loses his mind, “Of course.” Harry replies.

A moment passes.

Louis exhales all at once, standing to his feet, “Brilliant. Now, c’mon.” he orders, extending his hand out to the boy in one swift motion.

Harry laughs almost confusedly, still taking his hand, “What, are we starting now?”

“No, I’m just craving a tea,” Louis shrugs, pulling up on Harry’s hands, “We’ll start after we go to the wedding.”

Harry stands up with a groan, crowding Louis’ space as he finds his footing, “Tea? Seriously? I was just—” he stops himself there. And, with wide eyes, his hands slide out of Louis’ grasp.

He looks like he’s about to pass out. “What? After we go… we’re…”

“Yes,” Louis can see the wheels turning in the boy’s head, and when his eyebrows rise in anticipation, his jaw going slack, Louis is suddenly reminded of what Zayn said.

If Louis is going to do this—it’s _him._

“That, of course, if you’ll come with me.” Louis finishes.


	16. Chapter Sixteen

Louis bounds through East’s doors, with sprits high and a holdall in-hand.

“Toothbrush.”

Harry follows suit. “Check.”

“Hair ties.”

“Check.”

They make a left onto the frigid pavement, heading toward the campus’ edge at a healthy speed-walk. The sun is setting behind the trees.

“Hair brush.”

“Check.”

Their taxi soon comes into view, idling on the side of the street. Exhaust billows up and around the bumper. Louis turns back toward Harry.

“Charger cable and mobile.”

“Check.”

“Change of clothes.”

Harry stops. “Shit.”

Louis stops too. Spinning in his heels, nearly knocking his bag from his hands, “Wait, are you kidding?” he gawks.

Harry _isn’t_ kidding, if the look on his face says anything, “I totally forgot to pack clothes,” he mumbles, his bag sliding from his shoulder in defeat, “I packed a toothbrush and bloody _hair ties_ , but forgot any clothes at all.”

“You…” Louis begins aimlessly, and clearly his expression of sheer incredulity was all too much for Harry, because the boy is laughing before Louis can finish his thought.

Harry’ burst into hysterics, the wind ruffling up his fringe, “Of course I packed clothes, Lou. Who forgets _clothes_?”

Louis doesn’t mention moving out to uni and forgetting his bag of clothes. Or the week of shopping with Zayn that followed. Or that it’s the reason why he only owns khakis and polo shirts.

Instead, “Okay, how’s this,” Louis starts again, closing the distance between himself and their ride to the train station, “Did you hand in your creative writing assignment?”

Harry hikes his bag up his shoulder again, sighing as he finally gets the rest of his giggles out.

“Check. Did it last week.” He says.

Louis smiles to himself. “Well done.” He replies proudly, and maybe it’s _Harry_ who should be proud, relishing in the glory of another semester coming to a close, because maybe Louis had nothing to do with it. But, as they round the back of the taxi, crisp December air rustling up their coats, it feels like a small victory to the both of them.

It was the last thing on either of their schedules until finals—they’re _free_ for the time being.

Louis unlatches the boot with a free hand, sliding his holdall off his shoulder and into the taxi. With more giggling and rightful arm-swatting, like proper loved-up children, Harry mimics his actions. Their bags land with a thump, causing both the driver and the taxi itself to bob a little.

Harry slams the boot shut. He stands up straight before meeting Louis’ gaze, eyebrows furrowed in thought.

“Got everything you need?” Harry asks.

A moment passes.

Louis doesn’t mention it either, but he really does.

☆

Louis is nearly asleep when the boy speaks hastily.

“Billy Joel.”

Which. Okay, out of all the things to startle Louis from sleep, maybe a mental image of the Piano Man isn’t the worst thing. Still, Louis waits a full five seconds before responding, “Billy… Joel?”

The train carriage is dimly lit, threating to send Louis under again as he waits for the boy’s response, until “Yes,” Louis’ head bobs up and down as the boy fist bumps the air, as is Louis’ taken his great idea and run with it, “ _Yes_ , that’s it.”

“Thank god,” Louis exhales lightly, readjusting his head on Harry’s bicep, “Now that it’s settled…”

“Earlier at the train station,” Harry begins, and the car’s quiet, usually deserted for the holiday season, but the monotonous hum of the carriage on the rails still muffles his voice a little, “That brilliant ballad-y song was playing, y’know, _She’s Always a Woman_ ,” Louis shuts his eyes, he and his iPod confiscation are ultimately responsible for this, “I couldn’t for the life of me remember who sings it. It’s been bugging me for at least forty five minutes.”

Louis’ hand clambers aimlessly to Harry’s face, “I _just_ remembered. Y’know, it’s probably my favourite—” but “Shhhh…” Louis interrupts, missing his mouth at least four times, landing on everything but, until the boy is giggling quietly into his palm, “That’s great… congrats… goodnight.”

As Louis returns his hand to his lap, the boy intercepts it. His hand is large and warm over Louis’.

“Sorry,” he whispers, kissing Louis’ palm, “Goodnight.”

A moment passes. The carriage shakes gently. It’s enough to shake Louis out of it.

He sits up at once, turning his torso toward Harry before crumbling back into his seat. He eyes the boy from his vantage point, his head tucked against the cloth of the backrest. Slowly, Harry turns his way.

“How far out are…” It’s only then that Louis realizes how dark it is outside the frosted window, the pitch-black sky and rows of dark homes playing backdrop to Harry’s face. The darkened landscape is flying by faster than Louis can process it, and each time the clouds break, bright white moonlight dances across the boy’s skin in rhythmic flashes.

Louis forgets his question.

Harry blinks. “Why are you looking at me like that?” He asks.

The light continues to glide across his cheekbones, “It’s weird…” Louis feels like he can’t look away, “You know what this reminds me of?”

Harry blinks again. “What?”

“My carousel nightlight.”

Harry exhales in a rush, “My face reminds you of your childhood lamp?” He’s laughing, but there’s softness in his eyes, a smile tugging at his lips, “Well, that’s great, congrats.”

Louis rolls his eyes and budges up, inches away from the boy’s face as he entertains him, “The lampshade had star cutouts in it. It spun. I’d watch the stars pass over my skin until I fell asleep.”

Harry hums in acknowledgement, sliding his hands back over Louis’. The clouds break again. They’re covered in stars.

☆

The porch lights are on when the taxi pulls up in front of the house.

Louis runs his hand over the damp glass of the window, revealing the brick façade in full. He stares at it—at the same yellow curtains behind the bay window, the never-emptying post box beside the door, and the rod iron fence out front. The rickety basketball hoop looks seconds from falling to the ground, and the remnants of chalk drawings are still stark against the black pavement of the driveway, but it’s real and it’s still standing and honestly, Louis never thought he’d be able to say that. 

By the time he realizes he’s been sitting for too long, he feels the boy’s hand drape over his own.

Louis clears his throat, tearing his eyes away from the bricks, “Right, we should get out.” he exhales, shifting forward in his seat, but the boy’s hand only tightens, like a weight pulling in down.

Louis turns toward him. Harry’s eyes are warmer than ever, the streetlights creating a halo around his head.

“Are you ready?” He asks.

Louis stares at him for a moment longer. He sighs under his touch.

And then, “ _It’s Louis!_ ”

Even through the frosted glass of the window, Louis can hear their high-pitched voices as they bound down the front lawn, see their frost-blurry faces as his head darts toward the house, until the taxi door is hauled open and he is looking into the eyes of his four little sisters.

A moment passes.

And, “Is he dead?”

Louis didn’t realize he was holding his breath.

“Oh my god, he’s dead.” Félicité, ten.

“I think he’s broken.” Charlotte, twelve.

“I told you not to run!” Daisy, six.

“No, _I_ told you not to run.” Phoebe, six.

“Oh would yous _hush up_ ,” Louis manages to get out, finally catching his breath as he covers his mouth with his hand, “I’m just…” his eyes bounce from girl to girl, “I’m just so happy to see you.”

Somehow, all four girls smile at the same time. Daisy and Phoebe are adorned with matching coats as they stand in front of their older sisters, all of their cheeks the same shade of rose.

“We’re happy to see you,” Félicité says next, wrapping her stripped housecoat tighter around her small torso, “Because it’s been _ages_ , you know.”

“Four hundred ninety-two days, twelve hours and—” Phoebe slaps a hand over her twin’s mouth, causing Daisy to giggle incessantly through her fingers.

Charlotte places her hands on the twins’ shoulders. “We missed you, she means.” She finishes.

“I missed you too,” Louis exhales, and as they stand below the yellow-tinged street lamps, breathing in unison, each with their own unique facial expressions, Louis’ attention bounces between them.

Each detail he’d missed develop over the past year and a half begins to stand out to him, all at once, and “What’s this? What have you done to your hair?” he gushes, taking Daisy’s cheek in his hand, inspecting her wispy bangs, “When did you do this?”

“Phoebs cut them.” She grins proudly, straightening her neck as her cheeks are squished.

“Then the hairdresser saved them.”

“ _We_ cut them!”

“Not well.”

“ _Lottie_ —”

Louis is so caught up in watching the girls interact, he doesn’t even notice the car shift as Harry slinks out onto the street, or the boot latching shut after the boy places their holdalls on the asphalt. Only when Félicité’s eyes widen at the sight of something over the taxi, being the only one tall enough to see over it, does Louis’ mind remember the world is still playing around him. 

Félicité swallows. “Uh. Who’s…”

 _Oh_.

Louis stands from his seat immediately, slamming his door shut behind himself. He opens his mouth to stutter something, but Charlotte’s already speaking.

“Who what?” She asks, pulling her attention away from the arguing twins as she attempts to catch her sister’s eye line. But the taxi’s already taken off down the street, and Louis is left standing on the asphalt with two holdalls and one stranger to his family.

Unsurprisingly, Harry is the first to speak.

“Hi,” He says, voice warm in the frigid air, “I shared a taxi with your brother and now I’m coming to the wedding. I hope that’s okay,” he’s taking the piss, obviously, if the stupid glint in his eye and the cheekiness in his grin say anything, “I’m Harry. It’s lovely to meet you.”

All four girls are silent. The late December wind riles up their coats. A dog barks in the distance. Then, Daisy’s hand slaps over her mouth—her eyes wider than ever as she _shouts_.

“Louis’ got a _boyfr_ —”

“ _Right_!” Louis interrupts, clamping his hand over hers, and she only buzzes _louder_ , blinking incessantly as she slaps Phoebe’s shoulder. Her energy seems to spread to her twin, as Phoebe opens her mouth excitedly, but Louis was blessed with two hands for a reason.

He hushes her too and she licks his palm, “How about yous help us with our bags? There seem to be more of you than there is us.” Louis orders.

Harry’s covering his mouth too, laughing into the air, “Oh no, Lou, I’ve got it.” he starts, but “ _Lou_ ,” Félicité repeats to Charlotte, who hasn’t looked away from Harry since Louis did, both girls smirking knowingly, “He called him _Lou_ …”

“Oh, would yous quit—” Louis begins, but he stops himself there.

Mostly because the girls’ heads are now being haloed by the glow of yellow-tinged light.

Louis freezes.

And, “Would we quit _what_?” Charlotte taunts, leaning into her sister’s side diabolically, but the air has already left Louis’ lungs, his limbs gone weak, and his words long forgotten, as he stands motionless on the asphalt.

Slowly, a curious Phoebe turns her head back toward the house. Then, she shouts.

“ _Mum_! Louis’ here!”

This is not how Louis pictured it.

Not even close.

One by one, his sisters spin on their heels and call out to their mother, screaming about Louis’ arrival, and inevitably, his guest. Their voices have all mashed into one loud chorus as they jump about excitedly on the frosted lawn, and she waves to them from the doorway of the house. Even if the yellow foyer light is washing out most of her figure, Louis can still make out that she’s covering her forehead with one hand, as if she is so overwhelmed she is going to faint.

She hasn’t even said a word yet, but then she’s lowering her hands and extending them out, and Louis knows exactly what she means.

He just doesn’t know if he’s ready to do it. 

A hand brushes Louis’. Harry is at his right.

“Here we go.” Louis hears him say, his voice windblown and background, and when the boy attempts to hold his hand, Louis can’t _move_ , let alone close his hand around Harry’s. He’s stiff, frozen in the icy air, with his eyes trained on the front porch and his feet stalling on the asphalt.

Harry notices this. He places his hand on Louis’ back instead. And then they’re walking up the driveway, following his sisters one foot after the other, hiking their bags further up their shoulders.

☆

It takes Louis at least five seconds to adjust to brightness and warmth of the foyer. And when he does, the door is shut behind him and he is finally face to face with Linda.

With the same voice, now fuller and _realer_ , “Hi, sweetheart.” she whispers.

Louis inhales sharply, taking in both her words and her presence.

He doesn’t know if it’s the light, or the hour, but she looks different, like she’s _changed_ since Louis’ been away, with her hair pulled back into a low ponytail, free strands framing her round cheeks. As she stares at Louis in anticipation, like her whole life has somehow led up to this moment, Louis can’t help but feel like he isn’t looking at the same woman. She’s missing the furrow of her eyebrow, the quiver of her lip, even the small wrinkles beside her eyes.

She looks alive.

Louis exhales softly. His sisters crowd around them. Harry lingers a step back.

And, “Hi.” Louis replies.

She reacts the moment Louis’ voice reaches her, her lips curving up into the widest smile Louis’ ever seen. Louis can’t help but imagine this smile being the smile behind all of those phone calls Louis’ brushed off, and for the first time in a year and a half, he feels something other than certitude.

She’s crossing the floor toward him before Louis can imagine anything else, wrapping her arms around him before he can object, and then she’s hugging him, wholly and completely.

Louis inhales.

“I’m so happy that you’re here.” She whispers, barely loud enough for him to hear.

Louis exhales.

A moment passes, and somehow, it’s completely silent.

They only separate when a small body wedges itself in between them, “Mum…” Daisy whispers, tugging at Linda’s pant leg until she down toward her, “Look.”

Linda’s mouth opens and closes in confusion until Daisy points somewhere behind Louis—to be honest, Louis himself doesn’t even know what the little one’s getting at, but then Daisy’s giggling, ducking behind to her twin, and Louis knows _exactly_ what’s going on.

Louis sidesteps in defeat and Linda’s eyes land on Harry, as he stands blushingly in front of the door.

She reacts the exact same way. Smile wider than ever, _wider_ maybe, “Now, now, now…” she muses, covering her mouth with her fingers as her daughters buzz about, “Who is this beautiful boy in my foyer?”

Harry wears a smile to match as he takes a step forward, “I’m Harry, Ms. Tomlinson,” he says, politely extending his hand, she takes it, “It’s so nice to meet you. I hope my staying here finds you well.”

Louis doesn’t know whether to laugh, cry, or face palm. Either way, Félicité and Charlotte are staring at him from across the foyer like it’s the best day of their lives, sheer amusement in their eyes, as their mother quickly puts two and two together.

She covers her mouth with her free hand, and if Louis remembers anything about her correctly, she won’t be subtle.

“Harry…” She muses, taking a step forward, and Louis actually flinches as he awaits the prying, but then she does something that Louis doesn’t see coming.

She pulls Harry into a hug. This time, whispering just loud enough for Louis to hear as well, “Anyone important to Louis is important to us. Welcome to our home.”

Harry peeks over her shoulder right as Félicité nudges her sister’s side, raising his eyebrows a little. They stand like that for what feels like ages, Linda rocking him back and forth slightly, and Louis can barely see the boy’s face, but he knows exactly what he’s thinking: _so far so good._

Ignoring his sisters’ giggling, Louis raises his eyebrows back at Harry, unable to formulate the words.

“Right,” Linda exclaims, only after she’s pulled away from Harry. She looks toward the hallway, the kitchen and living room lying just beyond it, “How about some tea? Would yous care for a tea?”

“Oh, uh…” Louis begins, but she’s still squeezing Harry’s upper arms, like she’s unable to fully let go, when she says, “Yous had a long trip over, let’s have some tea.”

Harry drapes his hand over hers, squeezing back earnestly before Louis can mutter any sort of objection, “Sounds lovely.” he agrees.

“Lovely,” She lets her hands fall, shifting her attention to her two six-year-olds, one of which is still clinging to her leg, “Oh, you know what time it is. Bedtime, c’mon now.”

Daisy and Phoebe both release some type of whine, but Linda is quick about cutting it off. Clearly she knows what she’s doing, because Louis was _sure_ they were about to cry, and now, they’re gathering themselves up like tiny adults and beginning up the staircase. Louis watches as their little legs hop up each step, barely taller than the banister, until they’re nearly out of sight.

But not before Daisy turns around on the landing and waves at them, her other hand in her sister’s, “Goodnight, Mr. Harry.”

Now, _Louis’_ about to cry.

Nevertheless, “Did she just…” Harry mumbles under his breath, and Louis swears the twins have never been so well behaved in their lives, “She thinks my first name is my surname… I’m going to cry.”

Smiling, Linda’s hands graze the backs of her two eldest daughters, “You too, loves. Make sure everyone washes up before bed. And can you bring their bags by Louis bedroom on your way up? I’ll just be a minute.”

Harry shakes his head quickly, reaching for the bags himself, but Félicité and Charlotte have already snatched up the bags, still sporting their smug little grins as they bound up the stairs.

Louis feels more like cringing and less like crying when they reach the landing, though, as their hushed laughter is as clear as day.

“They’re sleeping in the _same_ room.”

“I know.”

“In the _same_ bed.”

“ _I know_.”

Louis covers his face with his hand, inhaling sharply as silence engulfs the rest of the remaining Tomlinsons in the foyer.

And Harry, of course. “Oh my god, they’re so cute,” He’s laughing, sliding his coat from his shoulders and hanging it up on the rack beside the door, Louis forgot they were still wearing them, “I wish I had more sisters.”

Louis looks at him through his fingers. “You don’t have to say that.”

Harry takes a step behind Louis, sliding his coat off as well. He shrugs, “Think it would be nice.”

Linda turns back toward them then, as the sound of shutting doors and running faucets rings through the home, “All right, you two,” she begins, her smile growing wider, “Let’s get on with it.”

Louis watches as she spins on her heels, her ponytail bobbing against the back of her neck as she begins down the hallway. Louis barely has the time to comprehend her words before Harry’s hand is on the small of his back again, pushing them both forward.

They follow her through the hallway and into the main living space, still quaint and a little dated, as moonlight shines through he windows. The room still expands around them though, like it did every time Louis bounded down the hallway as a child, but there’s something different about it.

The windows now have different curtains, the kitchen fitted with newer appliances, the walls painted a softer colour, the dining table and living room carpet covered in the remnants of children. It’s messier than Louis remembers. It’s genuinely lived-in. 

Linda’s poured three cups of steaming water before Louis even remembers where he is, rested a tea bag in each before Louis notices she’s moved, and placed the cups down on the dining table before Louis takes a breath.

“So, how was the trip down?” She asks.

She takes a seat behind a children’s colouring book, sliding it and a surplus of crayons down the tabletop as she eyes them in anticipation. Louis does nothing but stand in the middle of the room like a fool. Harry’s eyes haven’t left him since they left the foyer.

And, Harry speaks up, “It was a good trip, thank you. We’re both just so excited to be here.”

She grins. “Oh great, I’m glad to hear it.”

There’s pressure on Louis’ back again. Louis knows exactly what it means.

“Thank you for the tea,” Harry begins again, and together they close the distance between themselves and the table, each taking a seat. The wooden chairs creak as they sit, the table a little wobbly under their forearms, “You really didn’t have to.”

Linda smiles again, like a ray of light in the dim room, “Milk? Sugar?” she asks.

“I’m fine.” Louis says, and “Sugar, please.” Harry meets Linda halfway, as she slides the tiny sugar jar toward him.

There’s nothing but the sound of the metal hitting porcelain as Harry fixes his tea, the steam rising up and crashing into his hand. Louis taps his foot under the table. The clock in the living room ticks off time.

Linda exhales next, but there’s no unease in her tone. She looks and sounds completely at ease when she says, “It’s so lovely having a cup of tea, isn’t it? Mark got me the electric kettle for Christmas—works so well, I find.”

“Oh, yeah?” Harry entertains, and honestly, it’s the first time Louis even thinks about Mark since he arrived. And it’s not like he doesn’t know anything about the bloke—divorced, no kids, mid forties, school teacher, met Linda at a parent-teacher interview this past spring—believe him, he stayed up for too may hours searching his name online. It’s just strange hearing his name come from her mouth again, hearing her talk about him conversationally.

Louis eyes the ring on her finger too. Harry rests his leg against Louis’ under the table.

And, “Where is he?” Louis asks, on a sudden kick of adrenaline.

Both Linda and Harry turn his way in unison.

“Half ten…” She swallows her sip of tea, eyeing the clock on the stove in thought, “He should be pulling up to his parent’s house right now. He’s picking them up for the big day tomorrow.”

Louis nods silently, lifting his cup up to his mouth.

She continues, “We usually go with him. His parents have a lovely back garden with a climbing frame, the twins love it.”

“Oh, sounds great.” Harry comments, the sound of running children from above filling the silence.

Linda looks up slightly, and she’s beaming. “Yes, it really is.”

☆

His room looks different when he and Harry push open the door.

The furniture is the same, all light wood pieces with nicks and scratches and half-removed stickers, as well as the crumpled blue duvet and stripped red pillows. There are remnants of stick tack on his mirror too, where he’d hung cinema tickets and film posters and photo booth strips, and the same off blue shade of paint is coating the walls. Even the night sky looks the same through the frosted glass of his window, casting the same shadows and lighting the same walls.

So, maybe it _feels_ different. Because it hasn’t changed at all.

Harry sidesteps around their bags, “Oh my… god,” he gasps, choking back a laugh as he wraps his arm around Louis’ chest, “It’s so blue in here.”

Louis scoffs and then melts back into his body, “I know,” he whispers, flicking on the light beside his shoulder, “It’s worse than I remember.”

“Took you for more of a _red_ child, if I’m honest.” Harry muses, and “Why is that?” Louis asks, spinning in the boy’s arms. Harry’s face is impossibly close to Louis’ as he smiles, even more so when he gestures downward to Louis’ red polo.

“Right.” Louis laughs, covering his eyes with his hand. Breaking free from the boy’s hold, Louis returns his attention to unpacking, taking to the wardrobe as Harry claims the space under Louis’ bed.

A moment passes.

And, “They’re really kind.” Harry says.

“Hmph?” Louis hums in return, preoccupied as he fishes out his socks and tucks them in the bottom drawer of the wardrobe. 

“Linda, your sisters. Your family.”

Louis hands stall a little. He blinks. His face stiffens. But he continues rummaging through his bag. “Yeah, it’s been a while.” is what he goes for.

Louis can hear the final sounds of his sisters getting to bed as he grabs a small stack of pants and shoves them in the drawer. He then moves to his trousers, laying them on top, before hanging up a couple jumpers.

“You did well tonight, Lou.”

Silence takes over them. Harry’s complement dissolves. Louis’ face softens.

Louis’ nearly unpacked everything when he hears the boy cross the floor behind him, and to he honest, Louis thinks nothing of it. That, until the light in the small room flicks off.

Louis stops, mostly because he’s lost sight of his hands. He spins around in the darkness.

“Haz?”

With a switch, yellow-tinged stars coat the walls. Before Louis can say another word, the projections begin to move, dancing over every surface and across the boy’s chest, as he stands with the lamp in his hands.

“It was under your bed.” He whispers, and Louis eyes bounce to the boy’s holdall as it sits half tucked under Louis’ bedframe. Louis almost laughs, if he weren’t so caught up in the way the light is casting perfect shadows over the boy’s face.

He crosses the room instead. “See,” Louis begins, letting his fingers run over the divots in the lampshade as it turns slowly, cold under his fingertips, “Star cutouts.”

In his peripheral, Louis can see the boy’s eyes following the stars, “I totally get what you mean now,” his chin is pointed up to the ceiling, “It’s like being in a different world.” 

Louis exhales peacefully, letting his hand fall to his sides. The lampshade continues to spin in the space between them, it’s light growing dimmer and dimmer as their bodies grow closer and closer.

The room is dark by the time Harry looks back down.

There’s a knock at the door.

Louis steps back right away, lamplight returning to the room.

“Loves?” Linda whispers, her head peaking through the cracked door, “Are yous asleep?”

Harry moves then, sidestepping to flick on the light switch. They are both standing still when she appears in the doorway, and Harry’s the first to speak.

“Not yet. We’ve just got to unpack before bed.” He says.

She pushes open the door a little further, inspecting the room momentarily, “Do yous need anything? Extra pillows? Blankets? I’d be a proper mum and say _sleep on the sofa_ , but we’ve got heaps of wedding parcels on—”

“No, we’re good.” Louis interrupts subtly, and Harry laughs politely with her.

Linda tucks her hair behind her ears, never once breaking eye contact with him, “Well, all right then,” she sighs warmheartedly, contently, “I’m just down the hall if you need me.”

Louis sees the boy smile earnestly beside him, seeming to inch closer to him.

“Goodnight.” Harry says.

“Goodnight, loves.” She replies.

They share another smile as she shuts the door again, and for a strange moment, even with Harry by his side and a wedding looming over their heads, Louis feels like he’s ten years old again.

☆

Nearly an hour later, when Louis’ so close to sleep he’s beginning to feel his limbs going weightless, he thinks, he _swears_ , he hears the slow cracking of the old door and the faint padding of tiny feet across the floor.

The room is lit up with tiny travelling stars, blurring Louis’ sleep-heavy vision as they dance across the walls and onto the ceiling. He tries to move, to roll over when the footsteps get closer, but then the opposite end of the bed is dipping down and the body next to him begins to stir.

Louis’ mind begins to slip further now, barely catching the high-pitched giggle and a startled yelp as knobby knees accidentally digging into lean thighs. That, until her nose is pressed into the boy’s matted curls, like it’s _familiar,_ and she whispers…

“Thanks for bringing my brother back.”

☆

“Louis.”

“Hit him again.”

“Louis.”

“Again.”

“ _Louiiiisss._ ”

“Is he alive?”

“…. _Louis_!”

Louis wakes up in an instant, and “ _Jesus_ —” her high-pitched voice is ricocheting inside his head as he chucks his arm over his eyes, “What’s going on?”

A moment passes.

He half considers going back to sleep, but then remembers that someone may actually be in danger. Rolling onto his side, sunlight burning his soul, he lets his arm fall in defeat.

There are two sets of bed-headed bug eyes staring back at him.

Louis swears they’re not blinking, “Dais, Phoebs… good morning,” he mumbles, the fogginess in his mind slowly clearing, “Why do yous always think I’m dead?”

Phoebe is the first to break, giggling into he back of her hand, “I don’t know.” she says.

Louis waits an extra moment for more silliness. The girls are offering up nothing but cheeky grins as they kneel by his bedside in their pajamas.

Louis expected better. “Well, if that’s all,” He begins, rolling onto his back, “I’ll be heading back to sleep now.”

“Louis,” Daisy titters, tugging at the edges of the blue duvet as she looks over Louis’ chest, “Where’s Mr. Harry?”

“Oh…” Louis starts, mad impressed-like, raising his eyebrows at the girls as they giggle, “Listen, children,” to be honest, Louis was expecting this to be another tease about his ‘boyfriend’—and believe him, he was prepared to entertain them—but, as he turns to involve Harry in his little sisters’ amusement, he’s left with nothing but a drawn-back duvet and a sunken pillow.

He stares at the empty space for what feels like ages, dumbfounded. Until a strand of hair touches the side of his face and Louis turns to see both his sisters leaning over him.

Louis nearly screams, “ _Shit_ —”

“You curse a lot.” Phoebe points out, but thankfully, her twin sticks with the programme, “Where did he go, Louis?” she asks.

All three of them eye the empty space again.

“I don’t…” Louis begins, catching his breath, “I don’t know.”

☆

The girls are at least eight steps in front of Louis as they bound down the stairs.

“Be careful,” Louis calls out pointlessly, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he stares down at his mobile’s screen—8:14 a.m, no new texts, “I won’t know how to help you if you fall.”

And then they’re out of sight, darting around the banister and down the hallway. Louis follows them at his own pace, because he can still hear them no matter how far behind he is, as they giggle and call out Harry’s name in different octaves like it makes a difference.

It isn’t long before he’s stepping into the kitchen, and a new voice fills the air.

Louis looks up from his mobile instantly.

“Have you seen Harry? And mummy? And Lottie and Fizzy?” Daisy is standing next to the dining table, staring up at a man as he takes a sip of his tea.

Louis pockets his mobile, and “All of them?” the man repeats, his voice low but friendly. Louis can’t see his face as he peers down at Daisy, but he’s tall and lanky with lightly greying hair, dressed in a dark blue polo and trousers. The sunlight coming in through the windows is casting a halo around their heads.

Still, Louis can see that Phoebe is leaning into her sister, seeking his attention too, “Yes, they’re gone.” she confirms.

The man places his mug down. “Hmm…” He takes a slow look around the room, clearly to entertain them, before covering his mouth with his hand, “I think I might know where they are.”

The sunlight catches the ring on his finger as the girls begin to laugh again, and if Louis didn’t know who he was before, he knows now.

The sound of Louis’ name derails his train of thought. When Louis looks up, and they’re all looking at him, wide-eyed and attentive. Louis’ gaze meets Mark’s. Mark’s eyes are bright blue behind his glasses. He smiles at Louis.

“Come here!” Daisy waves her tiny hand for what’s probably the fifth time, urging Louis to come to her, “Mark knows!”

Breathing in deeply, Louis feels the same heaviness in his feet, the same jitters in his stomach, but then the twins are both waving at him, practically buzzing up and down, and Louis is walking toward them before he even realizes he is.

As Louis closes the distance between himself and the trio, Louis catches something in Mark’s eyes: _play along_.

“So, what’s this? Mummy and your sisters are missing, too?” Louis asks, stepping up behind the girls, “This is much more serious than I thought.”

They both look up at him then, necks bent backward, nodding fervently.

“I think Mummy told me something about it this morning…” Mark muses, siting back in his chair. One by one, the twin’s heads snap back toward him, excitement in their eyes, “I think she said she was taking Harry and your sisters on a trip to Sofaville.”

Louis can actually see the moment when their tiny heads explode.

“Where?” Phoebe gawks, and her sister follows suit, “ _Sofaville_?” she gasps, looking around the dinning room.

Mark’s eyes flick up toward Louis momentarily, a passing of the baton, if you will, “Yeah, I heard that too. She was talking about it to me and Harry last night,” Louis agrees, and they are literally building a town as they speak, “She gave me the directions to Sofaville, if you want them.”

Daisy’s hand comes down over her mouth. Her eyes are wider than they’ve ever been. Louis looks up at Mark, who’s also covering his mouth, but for very different reasons.

Until Mark _gets_ it, and reaches for a stray crayon on the tabletop.

Thrilled, Louis continues his enchantment, leaning down on his haunches, “Okay, but you’ve got to get in close. It’s top secret,” they both nod quickly, barely moving their heads at all, like it’s too big of a secret to risk blowing with willy-nilly head movement, “You gotta promise not to tell anyone, either. Pinky promise.”

There’s an undamaged, wholehearted trust in both of his sisters’ eyes as Louis raises his hands. And, “Promise.” they say in unison, one pinky for each twin.

Louis nods solemnly when he lowers his hands, and “All right, it’s time,” Louis reaches in between their heads, taking the small slip of paper from Mark in perfect time, before _magically_ producing it before their very eyes, “Here it is.” he finishes.

The twins have never looked more beautifully spellbound in their entire lives. _This_ is why Louis loves children.

Then Phoebe is aggressively snatching the paper from his hands, taking a hold of her twin’s hand as they bound into the living room, their tiny voices echoing through the room.

“Holy shit,” Louis exhales when the twins are out of earshot, sliding down into one of the chairs, and maybe he does curse a lot, “That was incredible.”

Louis runs his hand over his face, hearing Mark laugh into his cup.

Louis drops his hands. “Quick thinking with those directions, by the way. What did you even write?” he asks, and that’s when he finally gets a good look at the man before him.

Mark’s got fine lines beside his eyes, the early morning sunlight creating shadows on his skin when he laughs again, pulling the worst pirate’s accent known to man, “ _Sofaville: enter living room, step three paces to the right, step five paces to the left, step two paces backward_ ,” He clears his throat when Louis begins to laugh, breaking character, “And a bunch more of those, obviously,” he continues, the accent returning, “ _Remove the third sofa cushion of the sofa on your left, under it is the entrance to… Sofaville_.”

“Oh my god,” Louis exhales again, admiring Mark’s handiwork, “Amazing.”

Mark takes another sip of his tea, shrugging smugly.

A moment passes.

Louis shakes his head, “Right, I’m Louis—” but Mark is already extending his hand politely, saying, “Mark. It’s great to finally meet you, Louis.”

Another moment passes.

Louis takes his hand, “Likewise.” he says, a little too honestly. Mark looks at him for a moment longer, hearing the twins scream with laughter from the living room. Louis sits back in his chair contently.

And then it hits him.

“But, where are they actually?” Louis asks.

Mark releases a laugh, “Oh, Linda and the girls went to go pick up your Nan. I caught her in the driveway when I pulled in this morning, guess she roped Harry into it too.”

That definitely sounds like something Harry would get roped into. With Charlotte and Félicité’s nosy bums in tow, Louis’ sure it was inevitable.

Harry’s probably loving it. “Do you have any idea when they’ll be back—”

The sound of the door unlatching interrupts him. They’ve barely turned toward the front hallway when Harry appears in it, windblown and smiling, two long black garment covers in his hands. And clearly, Louis’ life _is_ a rom-com.

“Linda’s out front with Fiz, Lottie, and your Nan,” Harry reports, lowering the hangers in his hands, before making eye contact with Louis. Somehow, he’s smiling wider when he says, “I’ve got our tuxes. This could go very well or horrible wrong.”

☆

For renting on the day of, the tuxedos aren’t that bad. Even with sleeves that pass Louis’ fingertips, trousers that showcase Harry’s colourful socks, and the fresh new hell that is tying a bowtie—the tuxes aren’t that bad. Really.

What’s _bad_ is getting them on.

“Oh, your buttons…”

“Sorry?” Harry asks, flat.

Louis titters a little too endearingly. “Your buttons are uneven.”

Harry looks downwards, his chin squashing into his neck. He’s pulling the same face Louis’ seen the people in his class do, the wide-mouthed one, the one when they’re putting on mascara for a scene.

Harry’s eyebrows knit together. He scratches longingly at the buttons.

“Sorry?” He asks, flatter.

Louis takes a finishing step towards him and knocks his confused hands off his chest. “You started buttoning one button too low.” Louis explains, running his index finger over the silk valleys and plastic mountains. When Louis reaches the bottom of his dress shirt, one lone hole is left buttonless as expected. Tragic.

Harry’s mouth opens and closes. Louis shoves his pinky in the hole and looks up.

“Don’t say sorry again.” Louis says.

Harry closes his mouth.

Louis laughs as the boy attempts to decipher his words one last time. Louis can tell he’s thinking hard by the way his tongue sticks out of his ruby-coloured lips, until _finally_ , “Oh,” Harry hides his knowing smile in the collar of his top, “Just tilt your head a little, it’s what I was going for.”

Louis yanks his hand free and takes a single step backwards. “Oh?” He says, placing his hand on his hip, taking a good look at Harry. “Like, abstract art.”

“Exactly. Inspirational?”

“Immensely. What do you call this piece?”

Harry mimics Louis’ stance to a T, adding a contemplative chin tuck into the juncture of his thumb and index finger, as if he is genuinely artsy or he is actually art. He is.

Still, “ _Please Help Me Button My Shirt_ , cotton on skin. One hundred eighty-ish centimeters by… sixty?”

Louis flattens out the cheap cotton with his palms, pulling Harry’s bow tie off the mirror, “You know your height and width in centimeters?” he gestures to his neck and Harry leans down, allowing Louis to wrap it around his collar.

“I guessed. I mean, there’s like thirty in a foot, and I’m about—”

Louis cuts him off with a kiss, because he’s afraid of how long his explanation would be otherwise.

“Right,” Harry coughs out a laugh when Louis pulls away, running a hand through his unruly hair, “I think the last time I wore a dress shirt this awful was my sister’s piano recital. When I was nine.” he whispers.

Louis pulls the cheap blue fabric through itself a final time, his head tilting as he adjusts it further, “All about finding someone supportive.”

Harry grins again, placing his hands over Louis’ motionless ones. He lifts them from his poorly tied bow tie—honestly, it’ll probably still be the best tied bow tie tonight, bow ties are the _devil’s work_ —and then presses them up against his lips.

“But look at me now,” He kisses them, and Louis’ already swooning, dammit, “I’m wearing a terrible dress shirt and I swear I hear piano music downstairs, _but_ , I’m with you. I don’t think I’ll be pouting all the way home on this one.”

Louis swears even his eyes are smiling.

So he clears his throat, scoffing, “Have you met my family?” and, lowering their hands, he budges up to kiss the boy’s lips again. They connect after hovering before each other for a moment, and somehow Harry’s hands find their way to the small of Louis’ back. They always do.

It’s weird, that. It’s the softest touch he thinks he’ll ever feel, but somehow he feels the world spin. 

Until, “Excuse me, Mr. Harry.” there’s a voice coming from the doorway.

Louis pulls his head back right away, placing a hand over his lips as he watches Harry turn around. A small sidestep later, Louis catches a glimpse of their intruder beside the boy’s bicep.

It’s one of Louis’ youngest siblings standing in the doorway, with both hands behind her back and her bottom lip taut between her teeth. Her eyes are all knowing and her cheeks are as rosy as Louis’.

She looks like a princess. From the oversized bow in her blonde hair to her blush pink dress, she’s got socks as frilly as doilies and shoes as shiny as stars. She’s even got some of Linda’s jewelry around her neck, lying heavily on her peachy skin. A real-life princess.

“Daisy! Love!” Harry exclaims, leaning down to her level as she shyly enters the room, “You look _so_ beautiful. Aren’t you just the prettiest little flower girl on the planet?”

It takes only seconds for her to drop the shy act and run over to him. She jumps into his arms with a force Harry is somehow prepared for, Louis sees both their lives flash before his eyes, but then Harry’s scooping her up and spinning her around in the late afternoon sunlight, showering her in compliments until she’s put back on the ground. But not before she hugs him one last time and whispers in his ear, just loud enough that Louis’ catches it, “You look pretty too.”

So, it’s official: it’s been one day and his entire family already likes Harry better. Louis isn’t that upset about this one.

A million compliments later, Harry puts his hands on his hips, looking through the doorway, “So Daisy, is everything ready downstairs? Where’s your little flowery coworker?” he asks, his tone noticeably higher.

She gives the doorway a good onceover before wielding her head back towards Harry, and “Downstairs. Come and see!” her hands grab at his trousers.

“Okay, okay!” Harry’s eyes flick toward Louis, who hasn’t said a single word since his sister showed up and who is absolutely on the verge of tears.

Maybe he missed his neighbourhood, maybe he missed his sisters, maybe he missed seeing genuine love in this house—either way, concern flashes across Harry’s irises for a moment, and Louis takes the boy’s hand with such an overwhelming sincerity it nearly catches him off guard.

“Go.” Louis whispers.

Harry looks at him like it’s the last words he was expecting to hear, unlike the impatient whines of his younger sister as she tugs his hand toward the door.

Harry shakes his hand free of her tiny clutches. “Now, one second, Daisy—”

Louis returns it. “Nope, go on!” He exclaims, wiping his nose on his dumb shirtsleeve, both of their eyes flick toward him, “There’s a crowd of guests, cake, and piano music downstairs! Don’t wait on me. I’m just going to tie my bow tie and be right down.”

A second passes.

Daisy makes a beeline for the door, and again, this is why Louis loves children. Harry stays put though, much like Louis thought he would.

“Go, Haz,” Louis repeats, yanking his bow tie free from the mirror and stepping in front of it, “She may be cute now, but I don’t think you realize the favor you’re doing everyone.”

Harry scoffs, wrapping his hands around Louis’ waist. He tucks his chin into the crook of Louis’ neck. “Pssh, I love children.” He says, a little too convincingly. They stare at their reflections for a little while longer. Then, Harry kisses his cheek and leaves the room.

When did this become Louis’ life? A beautiful boy with a beautiful soul likes Louis, enough to inflict a wedding upon himself, during which Louis’ family may actually be contemplating kidnapping him and keeping him around until next Christmas, _all_ because he’s just that perfect. Out with Louis’ past conundrums and projected conundrums— _this_ , the present, is Louis’ biggest conundrum. He is living in it each day.

And clearly, someone has an opinion on this, as Louis’ phone dings from the nightstand beside his bed. Not even his pitifully crooked bow tie can put a damper on his spirits as he walks over and checks his phone. He’s practically giggling.

**From: Z**

**4:42 PM**

_hey bruv, just got a note from Li saying your boy won first place in some sort of writing contest??? there’s an article about it in this week’s paper. i’ll send you the link but don’t you dare spoil the details_

_utoday.co.uk/arts/lit/01054457/utoday-student-sole-to-place-_

_i’m getting a copy after work ok!! i plan read it dramatically at my nye party, maybe pick up some candles, have it blown up and hung up over the fireplace, who knows_

_(kidding) (we dont even have a fireplace) (love yous hope you’re good XOXO)_

Oh.

_Oh my god._

The mental image of Zayn buying more incense aside, Louis can actually feel his heart swell, the words ricocheting in his head long after he clicks the link.

The page loads in seconds. He begins to read.

_Harry Styles, second year English major and fellow UToday_ _student journalist, is to be honoured for his prestigious first place scoring in the L.S. Academic Writers Prize’s Short Story category._

_Originally submitted as a final summative evaluation, Styles gave his professor the liberty to enter his piece into L.S.AWP’s annual contest. Styles’ was one of the last entries to be submitted before the deadline, and upon deliberation by L.S.AWP panel of judges, Styles’ work was the sole entry to place._

Louis’ thumb feels like it’s stuck on the same blimmin’ spot, fanatically swiping up and down to read the same two paragraphs over and over again.

International. Sole. Prestigious.

To be quite honest, Louis doesn’t even know what _prestigious_ means—it’s one of those words he’s heard a million times before and should probably understand by now, yet he still finds himself faking it in public and helplessly Googling it later—but now, oh _god_ , his boy is _prestigious_.

With a feeling of pride only the world’s end can kill, Louis continues to read.

_Titled “Painting Over Blues”, Styles’ omniscient narrative retells the story of a broken man with talent to burn, who, after years of painful contemplation,_ _is finally coming to terms with the hardships he had to endure. The man, being the stark reflection of his broken home, rings true in the minds of many and prompts the question_ _: can one really find themselves within themselves?_

_A sample of Styles’ work is provided below_ _._

_“The truth is that somewhere along the line the space between the past and the future grew farther than he could see. He knows who he used to be. He knows who he wants to be. Still, he lies adrift somewhere in the middle, never sure if he is going backward or forward, or if he’ll ever see land again.”_

_“It read astoundingly real,” Stated Deina Abrams, English department head, also Styles’ professor, “Biographical or not, I was left with no inclination that the work had immerged from a place of fiction. Each line exhibited such a unanimous truth…it’s an ability that simply cannot be ignored. Rightfully placed.”_

_Beyond fiction writing, Styles is best known for his coverage of the creatives, all the more particularly, his coverage of the Annual Christmas Musical._

_In autumn of last year, Styles first charmed the student body with his insightful articles amid the production of Corpse Bride. Styles then took a victory lap, fellow writers say, covering this past autumn’s production of The Nightmare Before Christmas, directed by second year PA student, Louis Tomlinson._

_To purchase an anthology of all the winning pieces, please—_

“Lou!”

Louis’ phone falls from his hands. It hits the hard wood with a sickening crack.

“ _Lou_!”

Louis’ eyes find the empty doorway, as feet thump up the staircase and voices fly between storeys.

“The procession starts in twenty minutes, and Daisy’s just spilled grape punch on her dress!”

The shrill unintelligible sound of a crying child travels up the stairs. The boy’s voice gets louder. Closer.

“ _No_ , love, it’s okay! I’m getting him! Stay down there!” Harry comes into view then, rushing into the quaint room with his eyes transfixed on the damp splotchy flannel in his hands. The boy’s out of breath as he rambles, “I’ve tried to wash it out with water and soap, but I think I’ve made it worse. Fizzy told me to get you, she says you’ll fix it.”

And then frantically, _finally_ , Harry looks Louis in the eyes.

The world ends.


	17. Chapter Seventeen

“There, look. Good as new!”

Louis rubs a watery cloth into the purple splotch.

“Oh Daisy, you look great.”

He rubs a little harder.

“No big deal. Look!”

Light purple water runs down Louis’ hands.

“You can barely even see it! It’s fine.”

That’s enough. Louis stands up, tucking the purple stained rag into Félicité’s hand with a small nod. Is it as good as new? No. But is it as good as it’s going to get? Yes.

Besides, the huddle of comforting one-liners and pretty party dresses is sure to keep Daisy’s reddened eyes from releasing any more tears. She’s got half the wedding party and her twin rubbing her back and trying to wish away her flushed face. She’ll be fine.

“Thanks.” Félicité whispers quickly, a small smile dancing on her ruby lips.

Louis nods again, “Sure.” and breaks from the huddle.

He locks eyes with Harry instantly, where the boy’s leaning against the island. He’s keeping his distance, deep concern clear on his features as he peers over Louis’ shoulder.

“I’m _so_ sorry,” Harry says when Louis approaches him, but really, Louis was just getting his suit jacket from the island, “She asked for juice and I figured it would be okay. I had no idea about the cups with the special lids.”

Louis waves off the boy’s anxious air. “It’s fine. Don’t worry,” Louis grabs at the cheap black fabric beside the boy’s hip, “It’s as _good as new_.”

Harry’s so caught up in watching Phoebe fan Daisy’s face with a wedding invitation that he doesn’t notice the contempt in Louis’ tone. He merely presses his index finger against his lips in worry. Louis feels like he’s on fire.

“I know, but it’s just—”

“It’s fine.”

“No, but—”

“It’s honestly the last thing I care about right now.”

There’s a pause.

Louis can see the boy’s head slowly turn toward him in his peripheral, but Louis would be mad to give him any sort of eye contact. Instead, Louis hauls the jacket over his shoulders, and brushes the hair out of his eyes.

Harry is still staring when Louis claps his hands and spins on his heels, “All right! Who’s ready for a _wedding_?” and like Louis’ just flicked a switch, Daisy jumps up from her chair, grabbing Phoebe’s hand and their shared basket of flowers. They begin to jump up and down in place, giggling like mad, as Félicité and Charlotte attempt to shush them.

Louis begins walking toward the staircase. Harry’s mouth opens and closes behind him.

“Lou?”

Louis doesn’t turn around—he’s got a mother to give away.

☆

“Knock, knock.” Louis whispers as he slowly pushes open the wooden door of Linda’s room.

“Oh, Lin… you look so lovely.”

“I hope Mark thinks so too.”

Louis watches Linda laugh with the woman to her right, eyeing her reflection in the stand up mirror in front of her. The woman sidesteps behind her, tugging at the bow of her dress’ corset as a final touch, before instructing Linda to give her a twirl.

Linda laughs as she gracefully spins about, the stark white of her lacy gown picking up only the brightest rays of sunlight. She is dazzling, with her hair all tousled up in sweeping curls, her neck adorned with only the finest of her jewelry, and her lips the perfect shade of pink. As she spins a final time, Louis’ heart begins to beat faster and faster—so much so, he wouldn’t be surprised if it were to give him away. 

“Are you kidding? He’s a lucky man.” The woman says finally, grabbing Linda’s hands. And then they hug, it’s a whole-hearted hug.

Linda looks like a first-time bride, and honestly, it’s a sight Louis never thought he’d see. Not because of her, but because Louis might’ve sworn to never come back to this town. And he wouldn’t have, had Harry not convinced him.

 _Funny_ , that.

Louis must have made a noise, because both women turn their heads toward the door, pulling away from each other in a slow but unified motion.

It’s then that Louis realizes who the other woman is, and the last time he saw her—a year and a half ago, pulling out of the university’s car park with tears in her eyes, having just dropped off Louis and her son.

“Louis,” Mrs. Malik exhales, almost like she’s surprised, “Oh, Louis, come in.”

The women watch him expectantly as he locks his hands together and crosses the room.

Mrs. Malik’s grinning now. “Hi, love,” She says, slowly and genuinely, her voice just as soothing as Louis remembers it, “It’s so good to see you. You’ll have to kick my son for me when you see him next.”

Louis grins softly at that, “He wanted to be here,” he lies, because Zayn loves Louis, but not this much, “But he said he’d visit soon. I’m sure he sends his love.”

Linda nudges Mrs. Malik then, whispering like Louis can’t hear her, “Louis’ brought a friend down with him, I think Zayn would’ve felt left out.”

Mrs. Malik’s eyes flick over to Louis then, “You brought someone?” and her eyes are glowing just like her son, “Louis, that’s wonderful.”

Linda nods along with her before turning her eyes back to Louis, as if they are both waiting for his reply. Louis doesn’t. Instead, he takes Linda’s hands in his own, twirling her around once. She lets out a quick teary laugh, Mrs. Malik watching with a hand over her lips. 

“You look lovely,” Louis says quietly, earnestly, kissing the top of one hand, “You really do.”

Laughing lightly, Linda’s brown eyes well up with tears. She places her palm to Louis’ cheek, tracing her thumb over the corner of his mouth until he smiles under it.

Something bittersweet races through Louis’ chest then, something warm and stinging. This was supposed to be a turning point for them, the beginning of something better, and all Louis can feel is rot. But it’s not her fault.

Now, after years of contempt, she occupies a brighter part inside him.

“Hi, sweetheart.” She whispers.

Holding back tears, “Hi, mum.” Louis whisper’s back.

She lets out a final laugh, throwing her hands over Louis’ shoulders and squeezing like she’ll never let go, as if her heart’s as full as it can be.

☆

The Generic Wedding Entrance tune is surprisingly loud as it seeps into the kitchen from the back garden.

Louis is leaning against the island, surrounded by Linda, Mrs. Malik, the twins, and Charlotte, as the last of the bridesmaids and ushers walk in pairs through the doors.

Soon enough, Mrs. Malik picks up her pink bouquet from the island and adjusts her dress. She’s almost in view of the wedding guests when Linda rushes up to her and kisses her cheek. They share a smile, and then she’s gone.

As the procession gets closer and closer to Linda’s big moment, and the amount of people in the house gets smaller and smaller, the applause gets louder. Louis can feel the anticipation growing his stomach, his knees beginning to wobble and his throat beginning to sting with all the words he hasn’t said yet.

“Oh god,” Linda whispers, taking Louis’ hands again, “Just Lottie and then the twins and then… oh _god_.” 

Louis chuckles humourlessly, watching the twins order Charlotte to split the basket’s flowers in exactly two piles. With content twins, Charlotte flashes them a quick thumbs up and heads out with the rings.

When Louis looks back toward Linda, she looks ten times more terrified. He squeezes her hand. “It’s okay,” He says, calmly, “It’s going to be a great night.”

She smiles one last time, the twins making their debut in Louis’ peripheral. And then… _then_ it’s their turn.

Louis props up his right arm, his smile enough to invite her to link arms. She takes it gladly, lovingly, and he leads them toward the back doors.

_Showtime._

The sunlight blinds Louis for a good few seconds. For a moment, Louis thinks he’s transcended into a place where none of the last twenty-four hours has happened. Or, he’s passed out, at least. He hears nothing, sees nothing, feels nothing—not Linda’s touch, the wedding tune, or the applause of the guests; not the crisp afternoon air, the chirping of birds, or the familiar-faced boy sitting in the front row.

Louis forces his gaze upward.

And then the late afternoon sky comes into focus, high and bright, and he’s made it all the way to the altar. He gives Linda away to Mark, takes his seat, watches for the entire ceremony, and remembers nothing.

☆

“And now, I have the pleasure of introducing to you, Mr. and Mrs. Mark Collins!”

Louis is the first to stand, almost walking out before realizing everyone else is standing and clapping. He begins to clap, just as the Generic Wedding Exit tune begins to play.

Linda and Mark look like loved-up celebrities as they walk down the aisle, a chorus of cheers remaining in the air long after they’ve walked out of sight. 

Louis almost jumps when he feels the boy’s hand on his forearm. The boy is smiling like mad when he says, “Beautiful ceremony.”

“Yeah?” Louis asks.

“Yeah, I loved the drapery.”

“Yeah?”

“ _Yeah_ , Lou,” Harry laughs mockingly, “I did. Such a lovely colour palette—”

And, _nope_. Not today. “I’ll be right back.” Louis interrupts him, pulling his arm away and making absolutely zero eye contact.

The boy’s hand is back on him in seconds, Louis’ not sure why he thought it would work. “I’ll come with you,” Harry suggests, beginning to walk with him, “I want to congratulate the couple too, y’know.”

Louis’ eyes rake over the boy’s face, from his oblivious joking smile to his rosy cheeks, and back again. Louis’ sure his expression is one of a wax figure by this point. If only he could melt, too.

He’s halfway to walking out before realizing that it may be the last time the boy sees his family, and, quite frankly, he doesn’t want to be the monthly recipient of a ten-page letter from Daisy as to what happened to Mr. Harry.

“Sure.” Louis smiles, beginning his march toward the house.

As they enter the kitchen, the crowd cheers in unison, champagne popped and splashing down onto the island before Mark and Linda. The newlyweds each take a glass and sip it together, camera flashes lighting up the room.

Seems they’ve already started, then. Louis makes a selfish beeline for Linda, letting Harry get swallowed up by the crowd. “Hey,” He says quickly, grabbing her free hand at her side, “Can I talk to you for a minute? Down the hall?”

Mark makes another joke for the crowd and the cheers begin again, pouring champagne into tall glasses for all. He hands them out freely, “Take one and head out to the bus! Last one out has to walk!” he shouts.

They all laugh again. More clinking. Harry’s trousers are pulled by Daisy.

Louis squeezes Linda’s hand again, and she finally turns to him, her smile seeming to be permanent on her lips, “ _Oh_ , yeah. Sure, sweetheart.” she beams.

Louis leads her out of the kitchen once she places her glass down, away from the crowd, the noise, and the guilt. Not even seconds after they round the corner to the empty hall, Louis lets go of her hands.

“I have to go, something’s come up.” Louis blurts.

She’s _still_ smiling, eyes bouncing back and forth between the kitchen and Louis’ face. “Sure thing, baby.” She whispers, but _no_ , “No, listen to me.” Louis tries again.

“What?” She’s giggling.

“I’m leaving. I’m sorry.”

“You’re…” Then, it hits her. “You’re leaving?” She asks, her voice soft and breaking in the middle. The kitchen means nothing to her now, she’s staring at Louis incredulously, like he’s _just_ stepped through the door and is already leaving. And maybe he is.

Louis nods. She begins to shake her head, and Louis is convinced that she’s unaware of it, “Oh… that's okay. I’m sorry.” she says.

And for the first time ever, an apology from his mother is not what he wants. This is not her fault. “Don’t. Please. I just have a lot more revision than I thought. Wish I could stay longer, but you know how it is.” Louis lies.

Linda nods like she knows, when they both know she’s still processing his words. “Yes, of course. Well, I’m…” She brushes her hair of her eyes, “Go revise, sweetheart,” and her hand shakes, dammit, “Thank you so much for coming.”

Louis stares at his hands for a moment.

A long, long moment.

And, “Would you tell the girls for me?” he asks finally, his voice nearly breaking in the middle. 

She nods again, this time clearer. Louis can tell she doesn’t understand what’s happening, and won’t understand it for a while, but she’ll take care of it. She’ll know just what to say when the time is right.

The kitchen erupts in more cheers.

Then, “Where’d she run off to, anyway?” someone calls from the kitchen, and both their heads turn towards it—towards Mark and the rest of the wedding guests, as they make their way down the cramped hall.

With one last glance at Linda, Louis heads straight for the staircase, but not before she grabs his forearm and pulls him into a hug. A whole-hearted hug. And out of the list of things Louis wouldn’t like to be the last he hears her say, she whispers the worst of them all.

“Louis,” She swallows lightly, and then says, earnestly, “I couldn’t have asked for a better son. I’ll never forgive myself for what happened.” 

“I have, Mum.” Louis says, the words tumbling from his mouth without warning. She blinks at him, eyes wide and full, and Louis can see the exact moment her heart finally mends.

Louis means it.

Incredibly, whole-heartedly, _finally_ —he does.

Louis budges up and kisses her cheek, she leans into him, “I’ll ring you later. Have a wonderful night.” he finishes.

And just in time. The crowd swarms them in an array of champagne smiles, pulls her farther and farther from Louis. Between the clapping and cheering, he loses sight of her, just long enough to dart toward the staircase. 

And if Louis says he remembers jogging up the steps and shutting his bedroom door behind himself, he’d be lying. Either way, he’s halfway through unzipping his holdall when the noise from the street grows and there’s a knock on the door.

“Lou? You in there?”

If this were a film, this would be the part where Louis wields his torso around and flashes him the most blatant scowl known to man. Harry’s eyebrows would knit together in oblivious confusion, and when he offers up nothing but a panicked gulp, Louis would scream at him, tossing his hands up, his arms out, his clothes across the room. The audience would erupt in roars of shock, covering their children’s eyes, popcorn airborne and broken hearts bleeding out onto the carpet.

Louis faces the wall, saying nothing.

Still, the door opens, “They’re just about ready to leave down there. What are you doing?”

“Packing.”

The boy laughs. “For what? It’s the reception not the honeymoon.”

“I’m going home.”

A moment passes.

When Louis looks back, he’s still standing in the doorway. He looks like he hasn’t even drawn a breath, let alone bothered to enter the room like a normal human, with one hand still in the air and his lips curved up so pleasantly it’s like he’s forgotten they are.

Finally, Harry speaks. “Why?” Is what he goes for, contented and airy, as if Louis hasn’t just hauled himself out of his mother’s wedding and crushed her dreams of having the postcard family.

“Something came up. Didn’t see it coming.” A part of him worries for Harry. Is it that he’s too afraid to speak up—it’s not his home, not his family, not his _place_ to argue any form of reluctance—or is he just _that_ painfully oblivious.

“Oh, yeah?” Harry asks.

“Yeah.” Louis sides with the latter. And then crosses the floor towards the wardrobe and tugs open the door. He tips the hangers downward, causing his jumpers to slide free and pool on top of countless spare sheets. Then, he snakes the rest of his pants, trousers, and socks out of the two bottom drawers.

The hardwood creaks, and Harry’s speaking. “Shame that it’s come up just now, it’s almost New Year’s,” Fabric rustling. The subtle sound of a lip popping free from teeth. More creaking. “Did you tell Linda?”

“Yeah.” Louis continues to keep his hands busy. He sneaks a side-glance at Harry. He’s rubbing awkward circles into his forearm, and Louis feels like it’s stirring him up.

“I kind of wanted to see the girls hit the dance floor, but it’s okay, it is what it is.” Harry says.

Louis looks back down, “I know.” and he’s letting Harry talk— _yes_ , he’s letting him, because if Louis had things his way, they’d be at the bleeding bit by now.

With socks tucked in his sleeves Louis crosses the floor towards the bed, back to where he started, “But don’t let me stop you,” Louis entertains, careful to keep his voice at a nauseatingly dull plateau, “ _I’m_ going home, you go right ahead.”

“Well, no,” Harry’s standing behind Louis now. He can feel it in the way his back suddenly feels warmer, and hear it in the way his breaths are being matched. He nearly loses Harry’s voice in the deafening roar of blood in his ears. “Of course I’m coming with you, Lou.”

Louis doesn’t dare turn around. Harry actually seems to notice this.

And, “What’s happened?” the boy whispers.

“Nothing.”

Louis thinks he hears the sound of the wheels turning in Harry’s head as he places the fabric in his bag, but that, _cognitive thought_ —that would be just absurd.

Until, “Lou, please talk to me.” he exhales.

Louis’ fingers stall on the bag’s zipper. Talking to Harry is what got him into this mess. How could he have been so stupid? As he pinches the metal tab between his thumb and index, he knows what he’s supposed to be doing. He’s supposed to be shutting up, getting his kit, and then sprinting back home if he has to.

The room falls silent instead.

And, as Louis finally regains control over his hands, a set of large hands slide over his own, “Lou, please—”

The film begins.

“Tell you what’s going on?” Louis supplies, roughly heaving the boy’s hands away. By sheer luck alone, none of which to do with Louis’ own strength, Harry stumbles backwards into the desk. Louis watches contently, maniacally, as the boy’s palms come down on either side of his thighs, a book or two clambering down.

It’s not enough. It’s nothing compared to how sick Louis feels.

Harry steadies his feet tentatively. He takes the misplaced books in his hands like fallen robin eggs from a nest and turns toward the desk, but Louis’ already speaking.

“For _fuck’s_ sake, leave it for once.”

Like a good little actor reciting Louis’ script, Harry’s face contorts in confusion. He leaves the books alone, returning his gaze to Louis.

“Something happened.” He says, quieter this time.

Louis rolls his eyes into oblivion. “Is that all you’ve got?” He spits, tossing his bag over his shoulder, he doesn’t bother to zip it. “Thought I’d have to fucking chuck my shit across the room for you to finally get the point.”

“I don’t…” The boy stops himself, mouth open, like he should be saying or doing something but he doesn’t quite know what to say or do, “I knew something was wrong and I tried to ask, but you—”

Nope _._ “ _Me_?” Louis roars.

Harry’s backtracking before Louis even finishes the word, “ _No_ , I mean, Lou, we were fine before the ceremony and then…”

Louis laughs at that, really laughs, “Yeah, funny how that works.” he exhales, running a hand over his face. Harry’s standing so still, Louis nearly loses him.

“Lou, you’re scaring me.”

Somehow, Louis laughs even harder, because he is a whole two heads shorter than Harry and he is also standing in his childhood bedroom. The only thing scary about this situation is how oblivious a human being can actually be.

Still, Louis laughs a little too enthusiastically. “Am I?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Harry exhales, “I don’t know what’s got you like this, but I’m willing to listen all the way home if I have to.”

“Don’t bother. I’m taking the train.” Louis pockets the rest of his things, doing a visual once-over of the room.

Harry steps forward when they make eye contact, “How are you getting to the station?”

“I’ll walk.” Louis makes a beeline for the door, but the boy’s already speaking.

“Are you kidding? It’s bloody _New Year’s Eve_ and _dark_ , you’ll get hit by a taxi.”

“I’ll take a taxi.”

Harry grabs his forearm. “Lou, please, at least let me get you there safe—” but “Fuck off.” Louis snaps, his bag falling to the crook of his arm as he yanks himself free.

Harry actually tries to hold on, “Lou—” but with one final shove that has them both careening on opposite directions, “Let _go_!” Louis screams again, his knees nearly giving out as he grabs a hold of the doorframe.

A moment passes.

A long, long moment.

Louis stands up straight. “Have you checked your mobile recently?” He asks, flat.

Harry looks up from his feet. Louis’ words seem to break more than just the silence.

“Lou, I don’t understand.”

“Have you checked your mobile recently.” Louis articulates through gritted teeth, interrupting Harry, and he doesn’t even bother to say it like a question. It’s not a question; frankly, it’s just for fun, as Louis already knows the answer.

Harry clears his throat. He seems to get the memo. “No.” he answers warily, and then makes a beeline for the nightstand beside the bed. He tugs the tiny drawer open, and it’s already glowing in the dim darkness. Louis knew it would.

Harry pauses, and then scopes up his mobile. “Look, if I missed something,” His gaze rakes over the glass, eyes rimmed with red and glistening with tears, Louis can see the reflection of the screen in them, “It’s just been a hectic day, _good_ _hectic_ , don’t get me wrong,” he’s swiping through the notifications so quickly it makes Louis’ head throb, text after text after email after phone call, there’s absolutely no way he’s reading each one, clearly, “What’s all…” he stops abruptly. Mostly because the notification _don’t_.

Harry glances up with a look horror that nearly breaks Louis’ heart. Nearly. “There’s like a hundred notifications, Lou, there’s so many.” He whispers, his features unrecognizable with shock. He still doesn’t get it.

There’s a honk from the street below, voices carrying through the cracked window, “I thought so,” Louis knows he’s got tears in his eyes, can feel them as they lie dangerously close to the brim, threatening to break Louis into a million little incomparable pieces, “I mean, it was rightly placed.”

“What? Lou, please—”

“Now I’m gonna go, and—”

“Lou—”

Louis waves his hand at the boy, and he doesn’t speak any further. Louis continues, “And _you’re_ gonna stay and put on a happy face, because all of this is _your_ fault and I’m not about to ruin their night all because you managed to fuck up mine,” something flashes across the boy’s face, something hurt, _good_ , “And you listen to me. All my family knows is that everything is just fine and I had to go revise, and that’s _exactly_ what you’re going to tell them. From the first dance, to entertaining my aunts, to carrying my sleeping sisters home—if I hear that they had anything but a great night, _so help me_ _god_.”

“Lou.” Harry sounds like a frightened child as he shakes his head from side to side. They just stare at each other, wide-eyed and teary, the same gut-wrenching feeling looming in their stomachs, like all of this is really just a joke.

“Congratulations,” Louis whispers softly, looking into Harry’s eyes with so much emotion he nearly forgets his existence entirely, “I’m proud of you.”

And then, Louis walks right past him and out the door.

He doesn’t feel a thing.

☆

The sky is pitch black outside the train window, casting nothing but a dull glint over his stupid cheap tux and his stupid unzipped bag, as it sits pathetically on the seat beside him.

Louis didn’t think he’d be playing the role of _Melancholic Train-goer_ at the age of nineteen, but then again, he also didn’t think that his lover would exploit his private childhood hardships for personal gain.

 _Funny_ , that.

Louis tugs at his bow tie hastily, which is miraculously still on, and “Fuck,” he strains, nearly suffocating himself, his neck being rubbed raw, until “ _Fuck off_!” the strip of fabric finally loosens enough to be yanked free.

He chucks it out the window. And then makes a mental note to wire money to the tux shop off Dover street.

For a moment, he wonders how Zayn is feeling right now, how Niall is feeling right now, how the other English students are feeling right now, how _Harry_ —his mobile lights up in his hand.

In a word, Louis gets twenty-five percent of his wishes. He can’t say he’s a stranger to the feeling of sub-par revelations.

**From: Z**

**8:13 PM**

_fuck_

Louis powers off his mobile.

☆

Louis shuts the door behind himself.

In the mess of jackets and shoes by the door he only recognizes Liam’s and Zayn’s, but the sound of live television and an even livelier party is echoing down the hallway, voices cheering and chanting down from ten. Zayn wasn’t kidding about the party.

Louis lets his bag hit the ground. He toes off his shoes. He heads toward the staircase.

Somehow, Zayn is diving in front of him before he even reaches the first step, the boy’s beer sloshing about in his hand, “ _Fuck_ , you’re supposed to be gone for another four days, shit,” he continues to ramble until it all sounds monotonous, “ _Fucking shit_ —”

The living room erupts in the sound of fireworks.

“Happy New Year.” Louis whispers, passing the boy and heading up the stairs.


	18. Chapter Eighteen

“Harry!” He yells, his voice echoing down the long, narrow hallway.

He’s dealing with a steaming cuppa in each hand, sweat dampening his chiseled brow, and _at least_ twenty of their finals-ridden neighbours that he’s just disturbed—all at once.

Niall is completely unfazed.

Because it’s been nearly a _week_ since he jetted off to Ireland and Harry headed out for a wedding (with who was Niall’s mate first, mind you), and maybe Niall can’t remember the last time he was away from Harry for this long. He’s beginning to have Harry-withdrawals.

So, he’s just gotten in from the airport, warm Arch tea in-hand, and he’ll be dammed if he doesn’t call for his best mate like a husband returning from war.

“Harry!” He bounds up to the door of Harry’s dorm, the weight of his holdall nearly shoving him into the slab of wood, “Sweetheart!” some of the piping-hot liquid sloshes onto the carpet and he rubs it in with his foot.

A good ten seconds pass.

Niall is slightly fazed.

“Harry?” He doesn’t hear a thing. Not hushed chatter from the boy’s laptop, or the rustling of course notes as he gets up, or the soft thumps of his socked feet when he pads towards the door to greet his beverage-bearing best mate.

Niall hears nothing. Nothing at all.

So, he tries again, the thin cardboard cups serving no purpose other than scalding his thoughtful fingers, “Harry, mon chéri,” he sings, butchered French accent rolling off his tongue, “Answer the door!”

Again, not a thing.

Niall wedges his knee into the slab of wood, stabilizing himself as best as he can, before artfully tucking both cups into the juncture of his arm. This frees his left hand, in theory, so when he reaches down and grabs the doorknob, he can safely open the door and make his way inside mess-free.

It was a good theory.

He ends up stumbling through the doorway on a premature opening, sloshing some hot liquid onto his chest and yelping like a frightened child, but he’s lucky to be alive and he absolutely deserves an award for it. He macgyvered the shite out of that task and no one can say otherwise.

That’s when he sees it.

Or _doesn’t_ , for that matter.

The dorm is empty. He stands motionless in the makeshift foyer, feeling less like Harry’s simply gone out and more like he’s been cheated on, “Well,” Niall scoffs, giving the room a full once-over, it doesn’t look like it’s been slept in for ages, “I see,” he continues to talk to himself, slamming the door shut and spinning on his heels, “More for me, I guess.”

He makes a beeline for his door, jamming one of the now lukewarm cuppas into the crook of his arm, fishing out his keys from his pocket. He unlatches the door, pushing it open a little more gracefully, and—there’s music coming from somewhere inside his dorm.

Soft melodies, hushed and electronic, something Niall’s never heard before.

Slowly, Niall cranes his neck around the closet and towards the source of the noise, feeling his chest fill with anticipation, and “Listen! I’ve got two steaming cuppas and I’m not afraid to—” he’s met with the boy himself.

Harry’s wrapped up in Niall’s duvet, one knee strewn over the footboard and the other lying crookedly beneath it. His hair is matted across his forehead like he hasn’t seen the sun in ages, jaw slack and chest calm. His iPod, the prime suspect in the matter, is lying on his chest. The earbuds are clearly plugged in but not nestled in the boy’s ears; rather, they’re leaking the melodies into the still air as his laptop sits on the ground, long forgotten, black screened, and presumably dead.

Niall stifles his laughter.

He marches a good three strides into the dorm room then, goofily grinned with his eyes rolling, and then presses the door shut with his bum. He takes a long swig of his tea—or maybe it was Harry’s tea, both feel considerably lighter—and toes off his shoes. 

He’s mid swallow when he sees the illuminated screen poking out from under the boy’s hand. He lets both cups thump down onto the side table.

Through the cracks of the boy’s fingers, Niall can just barely make out the app that is opened. It’s the Messages app, _one_ conversation specifically, and with the slight twist of his head, he gradually makes out the recipient.

 _Lou_.

Slowly, Niall snakes a finger between the boy’s hands and presses it onto the smooth glass. He swipes up, half expecting to find a cache of excessive heart emoticons and stupid puns— _an array of reciprocated blue and white chat bubbles_ , he means, but he suddenly feels very, very sick.

Blue, blue, blue.

One-sided blue.

It’s not like Niall’s trespassing here, is he? Come to think of it, it’s not like Louis has been replying to Niall’s texts either—Louis _hasn’t_ , blatantly ignored Niall’s been—but all this time he’s just thought it was because of travelling and finals.

He pulls his hand away.

For the first time in four months, he has nothing to say.

☆

It’s been a week, and all Louis can feel is restlessness.

He likes restlessness, _trusts_ restlessness—having spent hours and hours of his early mornings and late nights dowsed in it, Louis feels like he’s developed a pretty strong bond. It isn’t new, it isn’t demanding, and it definitely isn’t going to make trash his bedroom, or scream at his best mate, or sob into his cereal at nine o’clock in the morning.

Restlessness is much kinder than that. Restlessness wouldn’t hurt Louis like that. Restlessness won’t get Louis into something he can’t find his way out of. So, naturally. Louis relishing in the feeling of it.

Louis starts his laps in his bedroom, where he’d gotten his first text from Harry, and then heads to the staircase, where he and Harry had exchanged Christmas gifts. Once he’s landed on the hardwood of the foyer, where Harry had kissed him for the first time, Louis rounds the pile of shoes and arrives at the kitchen, where he’d finally read one of Harry’s articles. Louis’ in the living room after that, where he’d felt the expanse of Harry’s skin for the first time, until finally, it’s the balcony, where Harry had taken refuge all in the hopes of seeing Louis happy again.

Then, it’s back up the staircase to start over.

He repeats it, both when the sun is peeking through his windows at dawn and when it’s finally tucked behind the cityscape at dusk. He tries not to think about the people who once filled the empty spaces, or the weight of the silence, or even the way all of it seems so vaguely impersonal now.

It’s _restlessness_ now.

After all, the cure to restlessness is change, and maybe Louis’ changed so much in the past four months that he hates the word.

He doesn’t care.

He does not care.

He’ll be just fine.

☆

It’s the third time she’s repeated herself. It’s the first time Harry hears her.

He looks up from his hands in an instant. “What?” He says.

Cassandra seems to take pleasure in his panicked tone, “I said _hello_ ,” she enunciates playfully, standing beside the break room door, Harry has no idea how long she’s been standing there, “Are you feeling better?”

Harry blinks at her. His hands stall on his apron ties. She blinks back.

“You called in to work yesterday, and the day before that,” She clarifies, her eyebrows furrow in the middle and Harry not sure if she even realizes it, “You were ill. At least that’s what Deb said.”

Niall didn’t tell her. “Oh yeah,” Harry sighs, finishing the small bow and stepping back from the apron rack, “Seems everyone catches a bug right before finals.”

She laughs at that. 

A moment passes.

In the silence, her attention slips to his handiwork. She pauses, “Oh, oops,” and then closes the space between them, Harry almost flinches, “You’ve put it on backward.”

Harry’s put an apron on at least a thousand times by now—this _one_ in particular, making up half of that. He never puts it on backward.

“May I?” She asks.

Harry nods.

She begins to untie the green strings, pulling the loop over his head before flipping it and siding it back on. She focuses on her hands as she does this, never once looking up, until it’s fastened and she steps back.

“I won’t tell anyone,” She smiles, crossing her arms over her chest, “That, if you tell me how the wedding went. I haven’t caught Louis around here yet to ask him, which is quite shocking in of itself.”

Harry thought he would be better at this. He’d had an entire silent drive home on New Years Day with _his bloody sister_ to sit and prepare for questions like this.

“You do realize what day it is, right?” Gemma had asked, shouting lightly through the passenger side window as Harry bounded down the driveway, “And what _time_ you texted me? I drove forty-five minutes to get here and it’s still barely eight. You’re lucky I forgot my ringer on. Happy bloody New Year.”

Harry hadn’t laughed. He hadn’t said anything at all. He’d merely tossed his bag into the back seat of her small four-door and climbed inside.

Gemma’s eyes were still on the house though, dark and quiet with inactivity. Harry wanted to make sure they were asleep when he left. He’d left a note. “I swear it isn’t my hangover talking here, but why didn’t you just stay another day? Take the train home when they run again.”

Harry knew what she meant. Sure, he’d just met the Tomlinsons, but they would’ve been happy to host him for another day. He could see how making his sister drive all the way there at eight o’clock in the morning, only to drive him all the way back to his dorm, definitely seemed excessive for a simple holiday cut short.

If only it were just that. 

“Was the wedding really that bad?” She’d asked, laughing.

Staring blankly at his knees, Harry had offered up nothing in return, mostly because he knew she’d see right through it. He merely waited for his sister to look at him.

When she did, all mockery was dropped from her tone. “Shit, _was_ it?”

Harry had clicked his seatbelt on then, staring up at the ceiling. He could feel tears welling in his eyes again, weighing down his chest and filling his head with fog—he’d felt that way all night. Both when he’d arrived at the venue, and when he’d carried the sleeping twins home.

The last thing in the world Harry wanted was for her to ask him what happened.

Gemma hadn’t. She’d merely stared at him for a moment longer, tucked a stray piece of hair behind his ear, and then put the car in drive.

“Baby brother,” She said an hour later, “You’ll get through this.”

Still, his stomach drops as Cassandra peers at him, that same heaviness rising in his chest, it almost suffocates him, “It was lovely,” he grins, trying to laugh when she does, “The wedding was beautiful. It’s great to see people in love like that.”

Cassandra looks as if she can picture it. Harry hopes she can’t.

“Weekend away… meeting his family…” She muses, shifting her weight onto the other foot, “I’m liking where this is going.”

Harry grins half-heartedly at her as she giggles, and he shakes his head, heading toward the door. He’s nearly out of sight when her voice stops him.

“Oh, also!” Harry stops, his back is to her when she continues excitedly, “Congratulations on that writer’s contest! I read about it in the paper last week. That’s amazing.”

“ _God_ , I wasn’t even thinking— _why_ did I say yes to entering it?” Harry says it before he even realizes he has, ache dripping from his tone, and they both freeze.

A moment passes.

Then, there’s an arm on his, turning him around. She’s staring right at him.

“ _Why_?” Cassandra echoes incredulously, “You’re wonderfully talented, Harry, it was a great decision. You _placed_ , for god’s sake.”

He holds her gaze for a moment longer. He stomachs his sick. Then, he smiles at her.

She grins back, genuine warmth in her eyes.

☆

“Rumours or The Wall?”

“Yes.”

Liam scoffs into the record bin, nearly dropping the record entirely, “ _Yes_?”

“Yeah.” Zayn nods, his back hunched over the front counter, as if he’s making all the sense in the world. He’s got one hand in the mint bowl and the other scanning over an inventory list, scratching out the records that he’d sold that day.

He draws a line and then erases it. Twice.

The shop is nearly empty now, the last of the evening’s customers riffling through the bins toward the door. The sky outside is beginning to darken too, rain clouds rolling in overhead, counting down the last half hour until closing.

Slowly, Liam spins on his heels. He’s barely five feet from Zayn and he feels like the boy’s a million miles away.

Liam holds the records to his chest, “You look exhausted.” he whispers, sizing up his boyfriend’s profile.

Zayn glances up for a split second, his lips curving into a smile, “Really? Thank you.”

Soft blues music rolls through the shop and Liam walks in time with it, sidestepping up to the counter, he laughs, “No, I don’t mean…” lightning flashes outside and Liam pauses, “Stratner trying to bury you?”

Zayn glances up again, this time his eyebrows furrow, “Stratner?”

“Isn’t your music theory final next week?”

“Oh,” Zayn reverts his attention back to his workbook, “I haven’t started revising for it yet.”

“Oh,” Liam echoes, the humour suddenly draining from his voice. He places the records onto the counter slowly, almost hesitantly, “It’s the Louis thing, isn’t it?”

“You try living with a toddler.”

And it’s true. After New Year’s Eve, Louis stayed in his room for two days straight. He didn’t answer the door, didn’t speak to anyone, didn’t go anywhere or do anything—by the third of January, Zayn thought he’d died. But then he finally came out and came downstairs, like a bloody shell of a person, he just started walking around the flat like a lunatic.

Zayn tried to talk to him about it. After all, their whole bloody friend group had begun ringing him, asking where Louis was and if Louis’d fallen ill, and maybe Zayn got tired of lying after the eighth call.

Louis didn’t want to talk about it. So Zayn tried again. Catching him on the staircase, Louis spun on his heels. Passing by his doorway, Louis shut the door. Ringing him and _hearing_ it chime from his room, Louis let the call ring out.

A week passed that way.

Until Zayn stopped trying. He stopped following him, stopped talking to him, stopped waiting for him to snap. He can’t even remember the last time he saw him.

Still, “God,” Liam sighing loudly, thunder clapping outside, “I still can’t believe what Harry did to him.”

Zayn erases another line of pencil. He doesn’t speak.

Liam continues, the door chime signalling the last of the customers leaving, “Especially after all Louis went through. I can’t imagine he was okay with Harry just _stealing_ it for coursework.”

Zayn flinches slightly, like he’s about to say something but quickly decides against it. He turns the page instead.

Liam notices this. Standing up straight, “Babe,” he whispers, crowding Zayn’s space like he’s a wounded animal, “You know what happened wasn’t your fault, right?”

Zayn leans back out of his boyfriend’s touch. He diverts his gaze over his shoulder, watching as rain begins to spot the pavement. It’s light at first, but then quickly picks up. In seconds, it’s battering the rooftop and running through the gutters above their heads.

He’s nearly zoned out when something catches his eye through the rainy haze, as it bounds across the street and toward the shop hastily.

Still, “Zayn, I wish you’d—” but, “Shit.” Zayn’s already moved on, sidestepping as he all but dives behind the counter.

Liam’s eyes widen, and “What?” he spins on his heels, right as the door chimes once more. But this time, a drenched blond is barrelling through the doorway, wobbly, windblown, and out of breath, nearly face-planting on the linoleum before them.

It takes Niall at least ten seconds to regain his footing.

“That’s what.” Zayn says.

And, without missing a beat, “Shit, bro,” Niall gasps, water dripping from his fringe and onto his coat, “I was two blocks out when it started coming down. Didn’t think I’d make it.”

Liam looks toward Zayn then, and there’s a quiver in his lip like he wants to laugh, but his confusion is taking over. And rightfully so, ever since the first day Louis’d talked about Niall, Zayn liked him, hasn’t found a reason not to. Shit, they were practically _chummy_ on Halloween and have been circumstantial best mates ever since—Zayn should not be looking at him like he is right now. 

But he is. Because, no matter whose fault this mess is, Zayn can’t help but respect whose best mate Niall was _before_ meeting Louis. And whose best mate he _still_ is.

Liam turns away. He’s laughing lightly when he says, “But you did, so congratulations.”

“Thank you.” Niall is laughing too, his eyes flicking back and forth between the boys, as he runs a hand over his face. He busies himself with wiping the water on his trousers, and then pauses entirely.

A moment passes.

Zayn’s the first to speak, “Shit out of luck though, we’re just about to close—”

“I’m not here for records.” Niall interrupts.

Liam places a hand on his chin then, shifting his weight onto the other foot. He looks to Zayn, before looking back toward Niall. 

☆

“Well,” Niall gasps after he’s swallowed a mouthful of his pint. “This is fucked up.”

A silence falls over the three boys, one that has Liam sighing into his glass and Zayn turning to face the display of alcohol behind the counter. He stares at the display for far too long, as if he will somehow acquire guidance from the bottles. To his dismay, Jack nor John are talking.

“So, your boy’s an idiot,” Liam finishes, matter-of-factly, earning a side-glance from Zayn, “And we had no idea.” 

Niall smiles slightly, “ _That_ is not news,” he says, propping his head up onto his palm. “But—”

“But what?” Liam interrupts, pushing aside his drink. Outside the pub’s window, a car splashes drain water onto the pavement, as the rain streams down like bullets.

Niall’s eyebrows furrow, he places his pint down lightly, “But I _know_ Harry, and I know he didn’t mean to hurt him. He idolizes him.”

“Enough to write Louis’ biography?” Liam argues suddenly, tracing the rim of his glass, and Niall shrugs harmlessly.

“I mean, it won first place or whatever, maybe it’s good?” He says.

Zayn watches his boyfriend lean into the table, exhaling, “I’m sure it’s _good,_ Niall. Harry’s been out-writing all of us for years, but that’s not the point.”

Niall’s shrugging again, a little more harmfully, “What’s the point, then?”

“The point is the _whole English department_ has read it, or parts of it,” Liam explains exasperatedly, “Shit, even _I_ know things about Louis that I shouldn’t. Not like this. It was Louis’ story to tell.”

Niall exhales whole-heartedly, “I get that, believe me. But if Louis would just read it, then maybe he would love it and all of this would just go away.”

“I’m pretty sure Louis already knows what it’s about, considering he _lived_ _it_?”

Niall swallows. “It was fictional. Harry never gave the character an identity, how are people supposed to know that it’s—”

Thunder claps outside, and “ _Seriously_?” Liam interrupts, Zayn’s eyes flick back and forth between the two boys like a spectator at a tennis match, “Maybe it’s just me, but he wrote about Louis’ most private experiences for his final without asking permission. Never mind the exploitation, isn’t that plagiarism or something?”

“Okay, but—” Niall starts again, but this time, “Oi, shut up,” Zayn interrupts, mostly because he knows if he doesn’t say something soon, it may _never_ stop, “I’m sure our boys would appreciate the debate, but that’s not why we’re here.”

Both heads turn towards him. It’s the first time he’s properly gotten a sentence out all night.

A moment passes.

Then, “Okay, why are we here?” Niall says, lowering his pint.

“We’re here to fix this,” Zayn looks between the boys once more, and it’s weird—not because the three of them have never _actually_ sat down and chatted over the past four months, despite having so many connections—but because Zayn might actually be on Niall’s side, “And, it starts with Louis letting this go.”

That seems to take them both off guard.

A long moment passes.

And, “Bro?” Niall whispers, leaning forward cautiously, “Are you forgetting who’s side your supposed to be on?”

Now Zayn’s the one to lean, back in his chair with a nonchalant sigh, “Was it a fucked thing for Harry to do? _Yes_. Complete breach of privacy, lying by omission, abuse of trust, etcetera—but, is it about time for Louis to just let it go? _Massive yes_.”

Liam reaches across the table, sliding Zayn’s drink away, “That’s enough alcohol for you.” he says, earning a breathy laugh from Niall, but, “I know what I’m taking about,” Zayn says, snatching his glass back, because frankly, it’s the only thing that’s making this whole conversation bearable, “He’s my best mate.”

Liam looks as if he wants to shove the drink off the table. “ _Exactly_. And as his best mate, how can you expect him to just let it go? If Harry’s timeline is accurate then this all happened only a _year_ ago. Louis needs time. You should know that, you should know him better than—”

He does. “I do.”

The two boys share an uncertain glance, like they’ve all slipped into some weird twilight zone.

“I do?” Liam repeats.

“ _Yes_ , I do.” Zayn replies, hands lying flat on the round tabletop.

Niall’s eyes flick back and forth between the two boys, the light flooding in from the street seeming to dim even further.

Zayn clears his throat, “His _past_ … he needs to let go of his past. I do know him better than anyone. I know how it has been weighing on him for years, impeding him from doing what he loves, frustrating him to no end—everything he does is rooted in in it, everything he doesn’t do, everything he wants to do. It’s time for him to let at all go and if this is how… then, _fuck_ , this fucked up thing is going to be how.”

“How could you know…” Liam begins slowly, “How could you possibly know that this is what he needs?”

A moment passes, and surprisingly, no one says a word.

So, Zayn does. “There’s been a light shining in his eyes since bloody October first. For the first time in fifteen years, I’d stopped worrying about him. I’ll be damned if I let Louis forget what he almost had.”

They’ve gotten another round of drinks before either boy speaks again.

It’s Liam. “Okay,” He says, faintness to his voice that nearly has it breakdown in the pub’s smoky air, “So, what do you suggest we do about it?”

Liam slides Niall a coaster for his pint. The blond takes it. “Make Harry write an eight-thousand-word apology?” Niall’s voice is no different, his pint quickly forgotten, “Because he would, y’know.”

“No,” Zayn says plainly, both boys looking up to meet his eyes, “We just don’t let Louis forget it.”


	19. Chapter Nineteen

Louis would like to say that things stay the same over the next two weeks. They don’t.

Louis gets blisters on his feet while heading back up the stairs, blooms a knotting pain in his lower back passing through the balcony doors, and with Zayn’s worrisome expression merely a passing thought, his laps sort of just—stop.

But his driving desire to alienate himself definitely doesn’t.

Louis takes to the streets.

He walks around the campus until people begin to look at him like he’s lost, takes the tube to the most eastern side of town, and then back to the most western side. He attends a footie game and feels like he’s drowning, walks by the lawn aside Crane Hall East and feels like he’s colourblind, bounds through Arch’s doors only when he is sure Harry is off and, when Cassandra peers at him anxiously over the counter, diverts his attention out the window.

What happens when L and H aren’t forever? Why would anyone ever do that to themselves?

He inhales the boy with every breath. He feels the boy in every touch. He sees the boy in every passerby. It makes him sick.

And that’s why “Louis? _Louis_!” nearly makes him throw up, as he passes by the campus library after his last final.

He knows that voice well. He knows her slate-coloured eyes too, as she quickly closes the distance between them, and then stares at him like she’s not sure if he’s real.

Louis hasn’t spoken to her since he left for the wedding. He hasn’t spoken to _anyone_ , actually.

“Hey!” Emilie exhales, out of breath and wind-blown, and all Louis can think is— _did she read it? Does she know?_ Because this is Louis’ life now, wondering how many passersby already know him better than he knows them, “Shit, Louis, I feel like I haven’t talked to you in ages. Do you not use your mobile anymore? And I don’t care if you were busy cramming for finals.”

Louis figures she doesn’t. She busies herself with straightening out her jacket as she awaits his response, her breath falling from her mouth in white puffs, but no sound comes from Louis’ mouth.

He merely watches her, blinking slowly, dreading the moment she looks up.

When she does, she’s already speaking, “Unless you’ve already moved on.”

Louis shakes his head, offering up something just short of a smile, he knows she’s joking, “I could never.” he says.

“Good,” She grins, hiking her bag further up her shoulder, the wind nearly blows off her beanie, “Hey, we should all go for drinks soon.”

Louis nods again, swallowing thickly. There’s a pause. There never used to be pauses between them.

She notices this. “So, uh,” She looks elated when a new topic dawns upon her, “Oh, massive congrats to Harry on his win. Seems you guys really are royalty around here.”

Louis freezes when she begins to laugh, and he can’t even force a smile this time. He physically can’t. It’s the first time he’s heard his name in weeks, and he can’t seem to focus on anything other than the sickness in his stomach.

This is why he’s been avoiding everyone. He doesn’t want to hear _his_ name out loud.

Her smile immediately falls. “Louis?”

Louis blinks.

She blinks back. “What’s happened?”

Louis turns toward the street, the wind drying out his eyes, “Drinks soon. Don’t let me forget.” and then he’s bounding down the pavement, her voice dying in the wind behind him.

☆

The flat is dark when he returns home.

Louis assumes that Zayn is at Liam’s; he usually is this time of night. Zayn’s made a habit of coming and going without saying a word.

And it’s not like Louis ignores him, Zayn just isn’t striking up a conversation worth having—not when Louis finally comes downstairs to eat, or when Louis wakes up to him sitting cross-legged on the coffee table, or even when Louis’ wallowing in self-pity so deafeningly the boy goes out for a third tea before noon. Louis almost forgets what his voice sounds like. 

His bedroom is dark too. Flicking on a lamp, he nearly clips his bedside table on his way to his bed. He quickly gets under the covers, a routine that’s becoming all too familiar, and then pulls out his mobile.

He’s got missed calls from Linda.

And Niall.

And Emilie.

And _him_.

Louis swipes them all away, opting to clean up his mobile instead. Anything from the last four months is quickly being deleted—a few photos here, a few videos there—until he ends up on his text conversation with Zayn.

He doesn’t have to scroll very far; the link is still there. And, with his eyes racking over words that have burned themselves so clearly into his mind, Louis’ halfway to deleting the conversation all together when he stops.

He clicks the link.

It opens in seconds, but he doesn’t read a word—instead, he clicks on the search bar at the top of UToday’s site and quickly types in his name, refusing to let it register.

The page floods with search results, dating back to first year:

‘ _The Verdict is In: Corpse Bride is Coming to a Theater Near You’ – Oct 1_

‘ _Back And Deader Than Ever’ – Oct 29_

‘ _Corpse Bride_ _is Alive’ – Nov 8_

‘ _Three Weeks To Go: A Recap’ – Dec 4_

‘ _Tomlinson Takes the Theatre’ – Dec 12_

Louis stops scrolling.

Slowly, _reluctantly_ , he clicks upon the last article title.

He begins reading:

_With the wedding of Victoria and Victor only two weeks away, it is safe to assume that butterflies are running rampant in the stomachs of more than just our bride- and groom-to-be._

_Though, even with pre-show jitters, there isn’t a single shred of doubt on the faces of the cast and crew._

_With the help of Louis Tomlinson, first year PA student and wunderkind, who took the theatre by storm only two and a half months ago, everything is undeniably on track._

_And the cast and crew agree—when asked about Tomlinson’s contribution, they all share the same sentiment: how has the show ever gone on without him?_

Louis stops there.

Not because it ends, but because it doesn’t.

He doesn’t think about how obviously bias it is, about how there are only a few real updates, all skillfully woven into an otherwise blatant praise of Louis’ work, about how it’s a _bloody tribute_ and all it does is make Louis wonder how many like it had come before, longer and even more brazen.

He doesn’t think about it.

Instead, his eyes trail over to the empty stretch of wall above his desk, next to the photos of him and Zayn. The thin black frame is still somewhere in his room, under his bed or behind his hamper, having been ripped from the wall on New Years Eve.

He nearly forgot about it.

Nearly.

☆

It’s the first time Louis’ heard him speak in three days.

“Y’know, you can’t hide from him forever.”

Louis looks up from his reflection in the granite. Zayn’s sitting on the sofa in the living room, game controller lying loosely in his lap, showing Louis nothing but the back of his head.

Louis is over it. He returns to the granite. “I’m not hiding from him,” Louis says matter-of-factly, and maybe he’s been staring at the granite for ages, hours even, but no matter which way he tilts his head or which one of his eyes he decides to shut, he can’t seem to find himself looking back at him, “I’m hiding from everyone else.”

Zayn scoffs quietly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Louis says.

Three consecutive beeps signal that the game console is powering down.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

Zayn actually laughs at that, belly laughs. He runs his palm over the back of Louis’ jumper when he pads over to the fridge, “Y’know,” he sighs, disappointment dripping from his tone and onto the floor, where it puddles around Louis’ feet, “You were built for arguing.”

Louis turns back towards his reflection. He covers his right eye. He covers his left eye. He tilts his head up towards the ceiling.

He sees nothing.

“Why don’t you go shower?”

He sees Zayn. Standing behind him, his reflection is in the granite.

Louis lowers his head. “Is that your kind way of telling me I smell?”

Zayn laughs again, disappearing behind Louis’ shoulder, “Never said that,” Louis hears the fridge open, cold air hitting his back, “I don’t know, showers just usually make me feel better.”

The boy doesn’t wait for Louis’ response. He rustles through the shelves instead, before grabbing something and shutting the fridge.

He’s disappearing through the doorway before Louis even turns around.

☆

“When did you become so dependent?” is the first thing Louis hears when he steps out of the shower. Unsurprisingly, the first thing he sees also happens to be Zayn, who’s sat cross-legged on the toilet seat with an apple hanging out of his mouth.

“Oh,” Louis says impassively, and then plods over to the cabinet. He tugs out a towel, wrapping it snugly around his waist. “Hello to you, too.”

When Zayn doesn’t quite greet him back, Louis picks up the washcloth from the worktop and wipes the condensation from the mirror. It’s streaky and still fogged up around the edges, but at least he can see what he’s doing when switches out the cloth for a brush.

Louis gets started on his matted locks right away, running the short plastic bristles back and forth on his scalp. There are stray strands of hair swaying in front of his eyes, dripping chilled water into his nose, and he can’t help but watch as they roll off and splatter down onto the dark granite. 

And then— “It’s weird, y’know?” Zayn says.

Louis kind of forgot Zayn was even there. He throws him a quick glance, quick enough to completely disregard the conversation that Zayn’s currently fostering, and “Hmph.” Louis hums, returning to his brushing.

“Tommo.”

“I said, _hmph._ ”

“Don’t you find it weird?”

Louis’ hip pops out a bit when he leans onto it, arms crossing over his chest, and he signs loudly. Obnoxiously. “Is this why your showers are so therapeutic?” He swings the brush around in the humid, post-shower air, “Is there always someone sitting on the toilet ready to vent with you?”

Zayn takes another bite of his apple. “Not always. I just think that it’s refreshing—”

“Was until now.” Louis cuts in.

“—to wash away…” Zayn stops himself there. Zayn lets his feet thump down onto the bathmat, speaking with his mouth full, “What was that?”

Louis glares at him in he mirror, brushing all of his hair back in short, tight movements, “It’s just a bit of a step up from light-hearted kitchen banter, that’s all.”

He grabs a face cloth. He’s barely toweled off his nose before the boy clears his throat. Louis doesn’t even bother looking his way this time.

“You thought that was banter? Do you think all of this is just _light-hearted banter_?”

Louis can’t say he’s a fan of the disgust in the boy’s voice. “You’re the one who ambushed me in the toilet, but okay,” Louis scrubs the material over his arms in thought, or maybe just to waste time before he entertains, “You think I’m _dependent_?”

“I do.”

“Dependent on what?”

Zayn shrugs a little too enthusiastically. “I’ve known you since we were kids, yeah? If anyone were to know that you’re a pretty self-sufficient lad, it’d be me. So naturally, I’m a bit confused here.”

Louis is too, “Dependent on what?” he repeats.

He hears the boy shift on the toilet seat. Then, he’s standing up in Louis’ peripheral, placing his apple core on the granite without as much as a word. He stands beside Louis, staring into the mirror as the last of the condensation fades.

Zayn likes the silence. He lets it take over them. He knows what it’ll do to Louis.

Louis tosses the cloth into the sink, wielding his torso around. “Look,” He grits, because _no_ , this is the first real conversation he’s had with the boy in ages and it’s _bullshit_ , “If you’ve got something to say to me, then just say it.”

Louis swears he sees a glimmer of bewilderment flash across Zayn’s face, but it’s gone just as quickly. He leans a hip against the granite.

And then, it begins.

“What he did to you was completely unacceptable, but you’ve got to make up your mind. If you hate him, that’s fine— _cool_ even, move on with your life. And,” he grips the overhang of granite but Louis doesn’t even notice he’s moved. It’s like Louis can’t see anything other than where he’s glaring at Zayn, positively scowling _,_ “If you love him, _sick_. Go ring him and tell him that. You can’t just sit around here forever stuck in _limbo_ , Louis. You’re acting like you can’t function with or without him—”

“Don’t,” Louis cuts him off, crowding the boy’s space. His fists are clenched at his sides, knuckles white, “ _Do not_ talk shit about what I love and hate. I don’t need you bloody babying me. I’m fine.”

“Right,” Zayn huffs out a humourless laugh, his condescending tone dripping from his tongue. It’s clouding the small space between them in mere seconds and Louis can’t even breathe _,_ he’s so bloody tired, “Barely having enough energy to breathe means you’re _fine_.” he jeers.

 _Of course_. “Fuck off, Zayn.” Louis spits, taking a full two steps back so he doesn’t hit him on accident. He picks up his mobile from the granite, the same thin layer of moisture covering the screen. 

“Y’really wanna see what would happen if I did?” The boy closes the distance between them like the separation hadn’t happened at all. He’s close enough that Louis can feel the anger radiating off of him, and if Louis were to say that he’s wanted to scream more in his life, he’d be lying.

Louis keeps his eyes trained on his hands, where he’s wiping off his mobile’s screen on the towel, “How about you stop acting like I’m some incapable child?” he grits.

“That’s just it,” Zayn says, plain. Louis doesn’t dare look him in the eyes, he won’t, because the last thing the boy deserves right now is a decent look in the eyes. Louis can feel his heart pumping in his ears. “You’re not incapable, Louis. You’ve never been. Last summer, last Christmas, _this_ Christmas—no matter what, you put it all away and come back to us. But this time, it’s different.”

Louis doesn’t say a word. The boy’s already in his head twenty-four seven, has been for _fifteen_ years. Louis has absolutely no reason to explain this to him. Zayn should already get it, for all it’s worth.

Louis bends down and gathers his clothes from the tiled floor.

And, “You need to make a decision.” he hears him say.

Louis rolls his eyes into oblivion. Zayn blocks his path when Louis stands up, nearly causing him to run into his chest. Louis runs a hand over his face, “All you ever talk about is our fifteen years of friendship, and yet it seems you have _no bloody idea_ how I deal with shit.”

Zayn sighs again. Or maybe he never stopped. “ _Of course_ I know how you deal, Louis. That’s why—”

“Don’t act like we’re not in each other heads.” Louis buts in.

“—you need to…” Zayn cuts himself off. He looks like he’s staring through Louis, not at him, as he swallows, “Lately, I can’t say we are.”

Louis almost storms out of the toilet right then. Instead, he gives Zayn a sideways glance, sidestepping around him as he throws his clothes in the laundry basket.

“If you’d ask me, that boy is the _best_ _thing_ that’s ever happened to you. He’s _freed_ you of—”

Louis storms out of the toilet.

“Tommo!”

Louis doesn’t stop walking. Zayn’s voice is background noise.

“Are you serious? _Louis_!”

Louis’ trailing watery footprints all down the hall towards his bedroom, and his bloody towel is sliding down his hips, but he doesn’t care. He does not care.

Then the boy’s nails dig into the damp skin of Louis’ shoulder, and Louis spins around in an instant, his hands connecting with the boy’s chest, sending him backward into the banister.

“You think I want to be like this?” Louis roars over the sound of Zayn’s back hitting the railing, and maybe every part of him is slamming the brakes right now because he knows, he _fucking_ knows, that Zayn is the last person he should be having a go at. Louis’ entire life is an homage to the boy, he’s got the list of Zayn’s unreciprocated good deeds pinned in his mind, but all of that seems to go out the window the second he sees the boy’s lips part. As if Louis’ going to let the boy fire more useless accusations his way, more condescending bullshit—Louis would be absolutely mad _._ “Do you want me to bloody spell it out for you?”

The slight raise of Zayn’s eyebrows is all the permission Louis needs.

“You think that all of this is my choice,” Louis accuses as Zayn regains his footing, “But y’know what all of this _really_ is? _This_ is being betrayed by the one person I’ve ever opened up to!” Louis’ head is swimming, he feels hot all over, and “It wasn’t my choice. It was never something I fucking asked for!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Zayn fires back, “Of course it wasn’t your choice, wasn’t your _fault_ either, but what you do about it now— _is_ ,” he emphasizes the last word like a bloody youth group counselor giving a speech to bothersome teens, “And if you’d just…”

Louis doesn’t have the time to be bothered. He interrupts, “ _All_ you’ve done is treat me like this is my fault!” and to be frank, Louis didn’t mean to say that one. But did he mean it? Absolutely.

Zayn rolls his eyes in annoyance, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Oh, _come on_ —”

“It’s true!”

“It’s _bullshit_ and—”

“ _That’s_ bullshit!”

“ _Jesus Christ_ , why do you always interrupt people?” Zayn screams, his hands slamming down on the banister. The wooden railings echo sound all the way down the staircase.

Louis is distracted for all of two seconds. “Because I’m not just gonna stand here and take this.”

“How’s about this,” Zayn lunges forward, jabbing his finger into Louis’ peck after every bloody syllable, he articulates, “ _Let him go_!”

“Everything’s so bloody easy for you, isn’t it!” Louis grips Zayn’s wrist, his knuckles going white, and “Yeah, it is!” Zayn screams, yanking himself free, “What’s stopping you?”

“Maybe because I love him!”

The flat silences around them. Zayn doesn’t speak. Louis doesn’t either.

And then, “ _God_ , do I ever fucking love him,” Louis exhales, and maybe it’s the first time he’s ever said the word, ever felt the word, ever _meant_ the word, “He is the one person I want to spend my life with, the one person who makes me feel like who I _was_ , like I can do anything, be anything, overcome anything, and I’m supposed to hate him? So, yeah, maybe I am _incapable_ and _dependent_ , but I’d think that I have every fucking right to be.”

Louis voice carries through the entirety of the quaint flat in seconds. It’s a rippling effect that bursts through their windows, snakes through the city, reaches the edges of the universe, and all Louis wants to do is cry.

The world had been cheering for them. Now, it’s stunned silence.

In that silence, something changes in Zayn’s eyes. It’s like a three-sixty of emotion spreading across his features, like he’s just made the biggest breakthrough of his life, and Louis swears he sees tiny spots of gold in his dark irises.

“So, what do you suggest we do about it?” Zayn whispers, his face triumphantly golden in the late afternoon light.

Louis blinks. “We?”

“Yes, _we_.” Zayn says, quietly.

Louis wipes his eyes irritably, letting his hand linger on his reddened cheeks, “Zayn…” Louis tries, but when he meets the boy’s gaze again, there’s softness in his eyes, something Louis’ never seen before. With a short-circuiting brain and a faltering voice, the only words Louis can whisper are, “I bet you can’t bloody stand me.”

“You definitely don’t make it easy,” Zayn says, the air of familiarity in his voice bringing Louis one-step closer to reality. Zayn takes a final step forward, and “But after all this time?” he muses again, his tone teetering toward the good-humoured side of the spectrum, “Why would you think that?”

Louis is stumped. “I don’t know.”

“Well, if you’d—”

Louis suddenly becomes _un_ stumped. “Maybe because I—”

Zayn swats at his chest irritably, groaning loudly, _obnoxiously_ , “Dammit Tommo, why do you _always_ interrupt me? I’m running out of words as it is.” he complains, his lips curving into a small amicable smile. 

Louis’ lips twitch. “—always interrupt you.” He finishes.

Zayn’s eyes graze over his face for a moment longer, the corners pinched up with nothing short of tenderness. And in a mix of exhaled self-pity, broken words, and welled up tears, they laugh. It’s nowhere near happiness, not even close, but it may just be the closest they’ve ever felt to it in a month.

Then, Zayn is hauling Louis up into a tight hug before he even realizes it, muttering all sorts of annoyances and grievances. Louis can actually feel Zayn’s steady heartbeat against his forehead as he presses his face into his neck.

Never mind the water droplets and remnants of shampoo smeared on Louis’ skin, or the fact that Zayn’s got on a new shirt today, he hugs Louis back like he doesn’t care to stain it, like he _means_ it—like for a moment, nothing else in the world matters.

Running out of words isn’t the problem. He doesn’t even have to speak to make Louis feel safe.

A moment passes.

“I don’t know what to do.” Louis admits into his neck, his voice raw and scratchy. It sounds oddly quiet, after having been surrounded by so much noise, Louis feels quite like a bomb’s just gone off and he’s standing in the aftermath.

“Come back to us.” Zayn whispers back.

Another moment passes.

And as he stands in the arms of his best mate, motionless and steady, he’d like to think that it is. But then Zayn’s pulling away, leaving him to stand on his own, and Louis doesn’t have the heart to tell him that he’s not so sure anymore.

“Fuck,” Zayn exhales exhaustedly, running his hand along his upper lip, “We’re getting too old for that.”

Louis lips curve into a small smile, grabbing hold of his towel just as it threatens to unravel. His eyes flick toward the window behind Zayn’s head.

“I’m going out.” Louis decides.

Zayn looks up from his hands then, nodding after a moment, “Okay. Where to?” he asks.

Louis shrugs, beginning down the hallway with short strides, “Not sure. Don’t worry, though.”

Zayn doesn’t. In fact, he doesn’t reply either—he’s too busy typing.

☆

Louis doesn’t expect the doors to be unlocked.

To be honest, as he jogged up the theatre’s front steps, he was planning on wearily slumping against a column until Zayn came to find him. But now the theatre is opening up around him so beautifully, no less breathtaking than it always is, and perhaps the last thing on Louis’ mind is being apprehended for breaking and entering.

He hops up onto the stage.

He sits in the silence. He devours it. He lets it devour him.

For a moment, he sees his classmates and castmates teeming around him. They’re paying no mind at all, dreamily moving about their groups, duos, and solos like Louis has just been thrown back in time. He’s an audience member to the production of November’s bustling daily life, catching a glimpse through the month’s eyes, where he sees Aaron and Emilie, Molly and Niall, Professor Miller and even—even _Harry_.

The boy’s standing bashfully in the doorway of the teeming whirlwind of creativity, watching the staff and students hurry past him, cheeks glowing a bright red. Louis can’t make out every detail of boy’s face from where he’s sitting, the halo of white light around his head making it nearly impossible, but then he’s looking at Louis, that much is for sure, his mouth opening slowly then shutting.

Louis doesn’t know what he was expecting to hear from a boy looking so angelic, but it definitely isn’t a stale, daydream shattering, “Oh, _shit_.”

Louis nearly falls off the stage. Grip white knuckled on the hardwood, his eyes hastily flash across the empty theatre, ultimately leading back to the one bit of November that stayed.

The door latches shut, and “I swear I didn’t follow you.” comes next, Louis’ eyes inching towards the doorway.

“Who told you, then?” Louis starts, and then he meets his gaze and sees Harry looking back at him, clearly and crisply, and Louis’ entire body shudders.

The boy looks drained and misplaced, light purple bags forming under his once bright eyes, with his hair matted in a way that only makes him look careless. He’s not even dressed like himself, just black sweatpants topped with a plain grey jumper, and it’s sickening—not because Louis’ sure those sweatpants are his own, but because Louis’ never seen him this way before. He’s never seen him look so defeated.

“Who told me what?” Harry asks, flat.

Louis wonders if he looks just as defeated. “Where I was. Unless we’re actually in an bloody rom-com.”

Harry swallows dryly, not even daring to crack a smile. “Niall forced me from my dorm upon request of his earbuds. Said he left them backstage.” and he hasn’t moved from the doorway, still leaning against the doorframe like a disoriented idiot, the tip of his boot scratching at the carpet lightly.

Louis can practically hear the dumb techno song bleeding out from Niall’s earbuds as he lies comfortably and contently in his dorm, returning Zayn’s text after sending Harry off. Zayn’s honestly insane if he ever really thought he’d left Louis’ head.

“Right,” Harry’s voice brings him back, “I’m gonna go look for them now.”

Harry’s barely taken a step before Louis is speaking again. “Don’t.”

He blinks. “Why?”

“Niall lied. Zayn put him to it. When was the last time Niall was even back there? Second semester starts in like two days.”

Harry blinks again. “Well... maybe…”

Louis lowers his gaze. Harry swallows dryly.

“Right,” Harry breathes, he regroups, “So, how are you?”

He says it with a face that makes Louis’ entire body shake with anger. Louis doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “Fine. Yourself?”

“I’m, yeah. Also fine. I guess.” Harry says dumbly, eyes flicking back and forth between the empty spots on either side of Louis, like he’s genuinely conflicted on whether or not he should sit. Louis’ conflicted on how hard he will be hitting both Niall and Zayn the next time he sees them.

When Harry doesn’t move or say anything else, Louis turns to count the rows of seats as if the boy isn’t standing twenty feet from him, because if this conversation were going to die, he’d quite like it to be Harry’s fault. Louis’ not going to entertain the boy, he’s the one who’s walked in on Louis and still hasn’t left, not the other way around.

Then Louis hears him move, closing half the distance between them in the time it takes for Louis’ head to turn, and the boy’s entire body freezes in place the second they lock eyes. _Good_.

“Lou, I—”

“Louis.” Louis interrupts, and it’s not because he isn’t fond of the nickname the boy has chosen for him, he doesn’t want to be reminded of _why_ he’s not just Louis to him. It doesn’t matter. It never mattered.

Harry recomposes himself. “Right. _Louis_ , I’m really, _really_ sorry…” but fuck that.

“Why me?” Louis asks.

That seems to take Harry off guard. Shifting on his feet, he opens his mouth after a moment, but fuck that twice over.

“Why write about me? What is it about _me_ that you find so entertaining?” Louis is leaning forward now, eyeing the boy with enough ferocity to bore holes.

The boy looks even more confused when he whispers, “What? Louis—” but “No, really!” Louis interrupts again, mock-intrigued, blatantly waving his hands with every word, “You’ve got to tell me—what is it? When did you realize my life was that pathetic? That you could turn it into a melodramatic short story and get praised for it? Tell me, was it during Corpse Bride? Was this your plan all along?”

“ _No_ , what are you saying?” He swallows dryly again, eyes searching Louis’ face for something readable, something familiar that he can use as leverage, but Louis knows his expression is foolproof. Louis barely even recognizes himself in the mirror.

“I’m just prepping you up for all that post-win article quoting,” Louis supplies, his tone bright and forced and painfully dry in his throat, “God, that’s going to be a smashing article, innit?” he marvels, “Because, _no one_ cares about that broken man anyway, this is all about _you_ ,” Harry’s eyes flicker with hurt then, with accusation, and _god_ , Louis doesn’t care, he does _not_ care, “Feeling satisfied with yourself, now?”

Harry flinches like he’s just been slapped with the boldness of Louis’ words, and it suddenly hits Louis that this is the first time they’ve discussed this face to face.

This… _this_ is the first time in a month—no, it felt like _forever—_ that he’s seen the boy’s face, sat before him and heard his voice, and Louis' never wanted to hit someone more in his entire life.

Blinking slowly, Harry’s lips part, and if he hadn’t been a guilty stuttering mess before, he definitely is now, “Lou—Louis, you know that’s not how it was. I’ve sat at home for ages thinking about this, wondering _how_ I could have messed up so badly and, and _why_ I didn’t see how wrong it was, and each time I hate myself a little bit more because I know there’s nothing I can do to take it back. But you’ve got to know it was absolutely the opposite. I _never_ wanted to hurt—”

“The opposite? Never wanted to hurt me? You’re _so_ full of it, _god_ , I can’t even believe you,” Louis scrubs his face with his hands. His palms are sweaty and hot against his wind burned cheeks, “I don’t even know what’s real anymore.”

He hears the boy clear his throat in earnest. He’s closer now. “ _This,_ Louis. This, _us,_ everything is real. From the day I first saw you, to now, and every day in between. Bloody _hell_ , I knew I wanted to be with you before you even looked me in the eyes.”

And no, absolutely not _._ This is not some of angsty teenage drama—this is Louis’ life, for god’s sake. If the boy really thought he could win Louis over with a shower of meaningless sincerity, he might just be more of a lost cause than previously thought.

Louis wants to scream.“Fuck off.” Is what he goes for.

The boy does everything but fuck off. “I knew that there was so much more to you, and once you started telling me, I guess…”

Louis lets his hands land in his lap, his eyebrows popping up knowingly. “It was all too fun then? Nice,” He comments with a small nod, like proper uninterested, and is it really possible to sound this calm whilst being cripplingly furious? “I hope the entire student body had fun, too. _God_ , I can't believe I ever trusted you.”

What the boy says next is not something Louis’ never thought of. Having spent weeks doing nothing but brooding, trying to psych himself down, Louis would be a fool to have missed such a valid point. But maybe Louis’ standards hadn’t been _that_ low for the boy’s justifications.

So, as Harry clears his throat and prepares to counter with the world’s worst excuse, Louis begins to realize he was wrong.

“I never gave any specifics,” Harry panics, “It wasn’t about that… I wasn’t trying to hurt you. No one could ever know it was you.” and that, right there, would also be the first and only confirmation that Louis has gotten. _That_ — hearing Harry admit he did, in fact, make a _bloody biography_ out of Louis’ life and then _willing entered_ it into a contest like nothing was out of the ordinary.

“And that makes it okay?” Louis tests, and Harry practically whines in frustration, eyes almost roaming for someone to help him, before he runs one hand over his face. Louis is undeterred, though; he’s breaking Harry down and enjoying every bloody second. “But do go on. Tell me what it was.”

The boy’s eyes shoot open. “What?” He asks, flat.

“Tell me why you did it. If it wasn’t that, what was it?” Louis clarifies, articulating every word through gritted teeth and watching Harry punctuate them with a voiceless, cowardly swallow. Louis needs a bloody explanation, not these roundabout attempts at hollow apologies. He’s quite sure Harry doesn’t even know what he’s _so sorry_ about.

Harry’s fists clench stiffly at his sides. “You told me to forget about the rules and, and to just write for myself, remember?” Louis’ mouth falls open in an instant, “And I guess that—”

“You’re saying it’s _my_ fault?” Louis all but yells, gawking at the nerve of the boy, whose features have tightened as if on cue.

“No! You’re not letting me speak, you’re twisting my words.” He says it like he’s being picked on, like all of this is so bloody unfair, _poor Harry_ , and Louis laughs at that, _really_ laughs, because all of this is just hilarious.

The boy got eight thousand words. It’s Louis’ time to speak now.

And he’s just getting started. “I’m just calling it as I see it, Harry. Tell me again how you took _take your time and loosen up_ as _tell everyone my about my past_?”

The boy’s hands are white knuckled. “You said to focus on something I could write for hours about, and at the time, all I knew was that _you_ were something I could write for hours about…”

“I didn’t tell you to focus on _me,_ Harry!” Louis shouts, hands slamming down onto the hard wood of the stage beside his thighs, and when the boy flinches and his lips part for more useless rambling, whatever’s bottled up inside Louis finally, _finally_ , explodes _,_ “For _fuck’s_ sake! _Anything_ but me! Footie, journalism, baking, proper recycling—I don’t fucking know, just not my _entire life story_!”

Harry’s mouth continues to open and close like mad, a full rim of white visible around his irises of green, and when Louis’ hands fly out in frustration, he nearly smacks him on accident.

“That was completely off limits to you! That was _mine_! And to think I told you these things because I _trusted_ you to keep them safe? Bloody amazing!” Louis’ voice echoes throughout the entirety of the high-ceilinged theatre, vicious and desperate and shaking the ground they’re standing on. Louis feels hot all over, like his throat is on _fire_ , and…

Harry doesn’t say a word.

He’s standing before Louis like he’s forgotten how to speak, eyes glossy and round like his brain has just put him on autopilot. But it’s not like that cold December night when Louis first lost himself in front of the boy—it’s entirely different now.

Because Louis isn’t angry with himself, or Linda, or some bloke he hasn’t even met yet. He’s absolutely, one thousand percent, furious with _Harry_. The boy doesn’t even know how to handle all that responsibility.

So, “Say something!” Louis shouts, before he even realizes he has. And then Louis’ standing up in a rush that nearly has him falling off the stage, as Harry shakes his head from side to side, tears sloshing around his waterline and threatening to spill.

 _God_ , Louis’ so tired of his bullshit, _immensely_ bloody tired, his mind nearly blacks out for a second. “Now!” Louis demands, crowding into the boy’s space. His vision is blurry and red-rimmed as he repeats, “Say something, Harry!” even louder than before.

Louis doesn’t wait for a response this time because, well, did he really think he would get one? He shoves at boy’s chest with all he’s got, nearly tripping over his own feet, and of _fucking_ course the boy barely stumbles backwards.

Louis swats at him again and again, petty and weak like a child throwing a tantrum, and Harry just _lets_ him, stands there wordlessly and takes it, eyes bloodshot and nostrils flaring, until.

Louis gives up.

He falls face first into his chest and sobs.

“Answer me,” He mouths brokenly into Harry’s jumper, his nails digging into the boy’s clothed collarbones like his knees will give out if he doesn’t, “You fucking…” he sobs harder _,_ becoming practically inaudible, “Answer me.”

The boy doesn’t. He doesn’t move either.

He stands like a bloody statue as Louis clings to him and shakes, hiccupping and hyperventilating, because he’s surrounded in oxygen and just can’t get enough. He can’t stop the half moon indents that he knows his nails are leaving in the boy’s skin either, or the way his knees are trembling like brittle leaves, and for a second, Louis is wondering why the boy isn’t holding him up.

It’s like he’s afraid of Louis, like Louis will shatter into a million pieces all over again if Harry dares to wrap his arms around his shoulders, and maybe he will, or burst into flames, but for some reason that’s all Louis wants him to do.

And then, the boy mumbles something.

At first, Louis doesn’t even hear him. His mind is racing far too fast and his heartbeat is thumping far too loudly for that kind of deciphering, let alone basic thought. It's like no words could ever break through the radio static that’s filled his mind, until Harry leans down and repeats himself.

“You’re award-winning, Louis.”

Louis doesn’t even have the energy to question the relevance of what Harry’s just said, or lack thereof. Louis’ completely unresponsive, he’s not even spatially aware, just sinking his face farther into the depths of the thick damp jumper, and suddenly Harry’s heart is beating against his cheek. Louis’ never felt a heart beat so fast. Not even his own.

He startles when the boy’s hands knot together at the base of his spine. He hates how much he relishes in the touch, like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. Maybe it is.

Then, the boy is speaking again. “My story, it’s all you. _You,_ Louis, you are what these people want to honour. Not me.” and for the first time in five months, there isn’t a single shred of uncertainty in Harry’s voice.

Louis’ entire body freezes in place.

Harry doesn’t stop. “I betrayed your trust and I don’t deserve you, never have and never will, and I have to live with that. No matter how I spin it, I took happiness away from the one person who deserves it the most, and I want you to hate me for it. I _need_ you to. I deserve it. I was too caught up in it, in you, to realize what I was destroying.” Louis feels his fingers loosen when the boy inhales deeply.

Louis tries to pull away so he can look him in the eyes, to say something, _anything_ , but the boy’s arms hold him in place, “And if you can take anything good away from this, anything at all, I hope that it’s how _beautiful_ of a person you are. All of you. Past and Present. You’re admirable and resilient and worth so much more than you think. We all know it. I hope to _god_ you’ll be able to believe that someday.”

Louis feels the boy press his mouth to the top of his head, lips pursed like he’s going to kiss him, and for a shameful moment Louis thinks that he might, that his muscle memory has taken over, but he doesn’t.

He pulls away entirely. Louis almost moves with him.

Harry looks him right in the eyes, wary like he’s not quite sure whether Louis’ even heard him but stern like he isn’t going to repeat himself anyway.

Then, he’s disappearing through the doorway.

Louis feels wobbly and spacey as the slam of the metal door echoes around him. Harry’s words are like bullets in his head, ricocheting back and forth through the haze.

And with the ghost of his jumper against his cheek and the fading warmth of his hands on his back, Louis can't help but wonder if this is the moment where he pushes everything aside and chases after him.

It is.

Louis’ bursting through the door before he even realizes he’s moved, shoes smacking against the cracked pavement and chest heaving, skipping over steps but tripping on most, until he bounds into the street and stops in his tracks.

He spots Harry immediately, always has, where he’s fumbling with the door of the arts building across the way. He’s tugging on the handle like it’s his mortal enemy, his other hand hastily rubbing the tears off of his reddened cheeks, when his head whips around and he looks Louis dead in the eyes.

Then, the world just.

_Stops._

Louis sees the last five months in the boy’s eyes. All the late nights and early mornings, nerve-wracking firsts and electrifying seconds, how quickly they became so significant to each other, how impossible it was to forget it all together.

It’s a spectrum of emotions he didn’t even know he could feel and _felt_ staring back at him, and to be honest, Louis has never felt more terrified than he does in this very moment.

The thing is, over the last nineteen years Louis’ set of walls had turned into a cage. And no matter how many times Louis denies it, the boy had been the first to knock them down.

_It’s him._

Louis’ sprinted across the street before the boy’s even yanked the door open.

And “Harry—” Louis starts, frozen breath tumbling from his lips, but Harry’s already interrupting him, “You don’t have to worry about anything else being published. I’ve already quit the paper and stopped any other stories from running. As for what’s left of it online, I’ve done my best to get rid of it,” his voice is quiet and watery, eyes downcast as he finally jams his knee into the crook of the door, “And I won’t be keeping any record of it either, but I’m sure that bit was obvious.”

“What a fucking stupid thing to do.”

Harry whips his head around. Louis slaps his hand over his mouth. He absolutely did not mean to say that out loud.

But did he mean it? Absolutely.

The boy’s mouth is opening and shutting like he’s forgotten how to speak, “I don’t…” and Louis’ never seen the boy look more confused, and slightly offended, in his entire life. Louis might have just sparked the biggest conundrum in _Harry’s_ life.

If past experience serves, Louis has approximately seven seconds to fix this before Harry absolutely loses it.

 _It’s on_. “Okay, right, I’m not off my head or something when I say this, but I get it. _I get it,_ Harry. As much as I didn’t want to hear it, I get why you did it and what it meant to you,” Harry’s eyes slowly lift from the ground, they stop on something over Louis’ shoulder, “You and me, we don’t work in the same way. Was it a good fucking idea? No, definitely not. But did you do it for the right reasons? _Yes_ , and I get it now.”

Harry’s eyebrows furrow then, Louis continues, “There are parts of this that I’m sorry for too. Leaving you with my family, ignoring you for days on end, _loathing_ you, which I never really could _,_ mind you. I should have _talked_ to you. We should have talked. I shouldn’t have let it get this bad. Because you’re _right,_ Harry, what we have _is_ real. And maybe if I would’ve looked past _me, me, me_ , and saw _you_ , I could’ve appreciated your accomplishment— _shit_ , would I have liked you to ask first? Fuck you, _yes_ , but I can’t even properly spell my name most days, and you were the sole to place for spelling _eight thousand_ words properly.”

Harry doesn’t even dare crack a smile. _C’mon Lou, you can bring him back._ “Right, the point is, it all went wrong. But it was going _right_ for so long, and that’s worth something,” The sincerity slips from Louis’ tongue unannounced, but he barely falters, he doesn’t care, he does not care, “This is _a massive, fucked up, beautiful_ compliment and I mean it. You wrote me into something beautiful, Harry, how crazy is that?”

Louis doesn’t know if he’s still talking, or his words are now ricocheting in his head.

“Okay, I’m done now.” Louis finishes.

For a frightening moment, Harry doesn’t even breathe. His eyes just run over Louis wildly, flicking back several times to his face like he has to keep checking if this is really happening. It makes Louis wonder if he should explain himself again—he’s an actor, he should be able to give speeches like second nature, but then the boy is clearing his throat.

“Don’t, please,” Harry murmurs, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. His grip is making handprints on the frosted glass door, “Louis, we both know what happened. Please, I won’t let…” his voice trails off.

Louis doesn’t even hesitate before taking a step closer, gravel crunching underneath his feet, and the boy looks up again. There’s redness where he’s bitten his lip raw.

Louis’ speaking again, “I’ve spent way too long dwelling on the past because I thought that there was no way to let it go. This _,_ Harry… _this_ is how I’m letting it go. I have to talk about it, because without it I wouldn’t be the person I am today. I wouldn’t have put on the best show of my life. I wouldn’t have the best mates a person could ever ask for. And I most certainly wouldn’t have you. I don’t care if getting my story out there will help one person, hundreds, or none. I feel _free_ because of it, I have my family back because of it, because of _you_ , and that’s what happened.”

Harry shakes his head. “Lou.” He says it with a face that makes Louis’ heart shatter, and maybe ten minutes ago he would’ve been ecstatic about it, caught up in a fit of rage, but now… now he just feels horrible.

There’s been enough heartbreak for the both of them. He feels like he hasn’t seen the boy smile in years.

And never again it seems, as “I’ve got to go.” Harry pulls the door open even farther and then slinks inside.

Louis is genuinely taken off guard, pulse thumping in his throat as he watches him, his _life_ , slip away, and _no_ —absolutely not. Louis is not going to go let this happen. Not again.

“Harry, please—” Louis starts, but the boy’s already slammed the door shut.

Except, not quite.

The door doesn’t slam shut.

It slams on Louis’ _hand_.

To be honest, Louis doesn’t know whether or not he screamed but “ _Shit!_ Oh my god!” Harry’s _definitely_ screaming, eyes wide with terror and jaw dropped in shock, practically kicking the door open and off of Louis’ hand.

Louis isn’t sure when he fell to his knees either, but then Harry’s clambering down in front of him, grabby hands latching onto Louis’ shoulders clumsily, and “Are you okay?” he shrieks.

“ _Fuck_ , that hurt, oh my _god—_ I’m so in love with you.” Louis exhales, cradling his reddened fingers against his chest. He swears he can feel them pulsate, _hear_ them too, and who’s bloody idea was _that_? Last time Louis checked he knew how to move his limbs, so why had he chose nearly lopping off his appendages instead of, who knows, opening the door after him? 

“ _Why_ would you—what?” He feels the boy’s hands drop.

“What?” Louis repeats absentmindedly, still eyeing the promising bruises. He tests out his fingers, clasping and unclasping, and they hurt like _mad_ , but they’re definitely not broken. No blood, either.

 _God_ , why did he do that?

“What did you say?” Harry breathes, and that’s when Louis looks up from his hand in a daze. For some reason, the boy looks completely smitten, eyes round and watery, cheeks flushed and shoulders limp, and Louis is seriously considering adding it to his list of conundrums when _finally_ realizes what’s just happened.

Did he just—

He totally did.

He totally, one thousand percent… _did_.

And he’s totally, one thousand percent, shameless. “God, _yes_ , Harry, I’m in love with you. I’m an idiot who throws my hand into slamming doors without thinking but I’m _so_ in love with you.”

Harry looks like he might faint. Louis isn’t sure if it’s the whole _I love you_ thing, or the life of Louis’ fingers flashing before his eyes, until—

“I’ve loved you for so long.” Harry exhales all at once, and his eyes screw shut, like he’s trying to work this out in his head.

Louis wastes no time in crowding his space, cupping the boy’s check, because _he_ _knows_ , “I love you,” Louis repeats, easier this time, “I love you so much.” and he’s practically preaching it now, bloody _hell_ , it’s rolling off his tongue like an addiction, and he can’t stop.

He keeps saying it until Harry opens his eyes. His heartbeat has slowed down considerably. Louis’ heart feels like it’s glowing in his chest.

Then, “God, Lou.” Harry gushes, and he’s _laughing_ , nearly hiccupping, tears rolling down his wind burned cheeks. Soon enough Louis’ laughing too, frozen breath and watery sleeves crowding the space between them. Words should not feel this good.

A long, long moment passes.

Louis’ the first to speak.

“We’re all right?” He asks, his limbs finally feeling the cold seep in, before he catches a glimpse of his bruising hand, “But that’s definitely not all right.”

“ _Yes_ , we are,” Harry releases a final chuckle, leaning into Louis to get a look at his hand, “Shit, Lou, we should really—”

The flushing of Harry’s fair skin is the last thing Louis sees before he budges up and kisses the boy _._ It’s a bruising kiss, just relishing in the feeling of each other, and Louis wouldn’t have it any other way. Louis has never felt freer in his entire life. He was about to give this up, bloody _hell_ —he’d quite like to do this forever.

“Your hands are freezing.” Harry breathes against the corner of Louis’ mouth and, to be fair, Louis didn’t even realize how bloody frigid it is outside until now.

When Louis’ entire body shivers unwillingly, Harry pulls back and releases the softest chuckle Louis thinks he’s ever heard.

“Should we go inside?” Louis asks.

Harry’s eyes fall downward to Louis hands. He takes them in his own, pressing his lips to Louis’ skin. And suddenly, Louis feels warm all over.


	20. Epilogue

“Wake up.”

“Hit him again.”

“Wake up _._ ”

“Again.”

“ _Waaaaake uuuup._ ”

“Is he alive?”

Her hand comes down on his cheek, loud and fast, and “ _Wake up_!” she screams.

Harry’s eyes shoot open in an instant.

And he’s nearly falling off the bed, “ _What?_ I’m up! I’m up!” he grasps at the blanket on both sides of him, out of breath and panicked, and to say that Louis is amused would be an understatement.

He’s in _hysterics_.

“You’re right, Dais,” Louis manages through a shaky breath, falling onto his haunches at the side of the bed, “This _is_ more fun when you’re the one doing the screaming.”

Because, as Daisy and Phoebe scream “ _Mr. Harry_!” in unison, opting to rush the bed itself, all Louis can do is watch and laugh.

Harry blinks away the sleep, “Wait, hold on!” and struggles to stay afloat as the twins climb over him, tossing pillows at each other and tittering manically, “No one’s hurt? Nothing’s broken?” he gasps.

The twins don’t seem to hear him. Instead, “Pillow fight!” is what Daisy goes for, hurtling a pillow toward Harry’s chest.

It misses entirely, landing squarely at Louis’ feet. “Oh, yeah?” Harry shouts challengingly, lunging for the pillow when his eyes land on Louis. He stops, his face golden in the early morning sunlight.

Louis stares at him. He stares back.

Then, “Go get ‘em.” Louis whispers, scooping up the pillow and tossing it his way. He’s over pillow fights, anyway.

Harry grins the second Louis does, clutching the pillowcase in his fingers. He sits up fully when Phoebe releases something just short of a battle cry, turning back toward Louis momentarily.

“Tell me again why I asked to come back here?” He exhales pitifully.

Louis barely hears him over the roar of his little sisters. Shrugging, Louis likes to let Harry think it was his idea. He doesn’t mention the call he received from his mum’s mobile a week after Easter break started, consisting of nothing but four unintelligible high-pitched voices, screaming about _holiday_ and _visiting_ and _Mr. Harry_.

Harry asked to take the train down before Louis even brought it up. Funny how that works.

“ _Attack_!” Daisy shouts excitedly, tearing Harry’s attention away from Louis. She’s jumping up and down on the mattress in time with her sister, and Harry wastes no time in springing to his knees.

The fight begins.

And Louis leans back on his palms, playing fond audience to a chorus of giggling and shouting, egging on the girls and ignoring Harry’s pleas for help.

That, until a stray pillow clips his head.

All three sets of eyes turn his way in an instant. Daisy and Phoebe cover their mouths. Harry’s eyes widen.

“Oops…”

But Louis’ already grabbed the pillow.

_It’s on._

☆

“Thirteen?”

“Nope, Phoebe’s turn.”

“….four.”

“Nope, again. Back to you.”

“Seven!”

“Another nope. Daisy?”

“How does he do it?” Louis startles when Charlotte speaks, appearing beside him at the sink.

Louis tears his eyes away from Harry. Okay, so, _maybe_ Louis had been put on dish duty after dinner, hadn’t gotten very far before he’d heard one of his little sisters grab Harry’s attention, and then proceeded to eavesdrop.

But maybe it wasn’t his fault.

The twins had been attached to Harry’s hip all bloody day, following him around and pulling at his sleeves, like little living shadows. They were on him when they hit the shops, when they stopped for lunch, when they saw a film at the cinema—and worst of all, Harry hadn’t been the worst about it. He’d been the best.

Brushing off both Linda and Louis’ attempts at freeing him, Harry had made an _effort_ to entertain them, to keep up with them, to treat them like his _own_ siblings, both when they asked him every question under the sun and when they started their seventh game of eye-spy.

It’s Harry’s fault.

Harry’s _beautiful, considerate, perfect_ fault.

Either way, Louis’d turned away from the sink ages ago, with the wet plate still in his hands, forgotten and dripping soapy water onto the tile.

And Charlotte is absolutely smirking, “They literally love him more than us,” she says lightly as she leans against the sink, letting Louis off the hook, “He’s a natural.”

Louis turns back toward the pile of dishes, but not before sneaking another look at Harry, as he and the twins sit at the table across the room. Four more incorrect guesses pingpong between them and the twins laugh manically, nearly falling off of their shared chair. He can hear Linda, Mark, and Félicité laughing from the living room, too.

He feels warm all over. “Yeah,” Louis exhales, running a socked foot over the small puddle at his feet, “He really is.”

“D’you think he’s actually chosen a number between one and twenty?”

Louis laughs at that, turning on the faucet, “Nope,” he echoes, right as Daisy screams something, Harry opting to shush her as they laugh together, “No way. He’s just seeing how long it’ll last.”

“He’s keeping them busy, s’all good with me.” Charlotte pushes off the sink, and then promptly turns in place, “Need help washing up?”

Louis cuts the water. He turns toward her, his eyebrows furrowing, “Charlotte Elizabeth Tomlinson, did you just offer to _help me wash up_?” he taunts.

It takes her all but three seconds to break into a smile, eyebrows rising and eyes crinkling at the corners, “Uh, Louis William Tomlinson,” she mocks, crossing her arms over her chest, “Do you not want the help?”

She’s looking more and more like their mum everyday. Louis cocks an eyebrow, “Is that right?” and he’s halfway to sassing her back, until he remembers just how many dishes he has left.

Try, all of them. “I would love the help.” Louis settles, sidestepping toward the fridge.

Charlotte laughs at that. She rolls her eyes as she scoops up a dishrag, nudging her arm against his, “You wash, and I dry. Yeah?”

“Sounds great.” Louis agrees, nudging her back.

They get to work, humming and bantering, passing the dishes back and forth until they’ve got soapsuds up to their elbows. Turns out, working hard goes a lot faster than enamoured eavesdropping, and when Charlotte starts telling Louis all about her boy drama in between drying plates and cutlery, Louis loves it, not because the story has changed since they spoke last, but because it _hasn’t_.

Now, he’s a big enough part of his sister’s lives to listen to the same story twice, and that never gets old.

☆

Getting the twins to head upstairs for bed goes a lot faster when Harry’s chasing them to the base of the staircase, giggling and shrieking like mad. 

Louis watches them from the doorframe, looking up from his mobile briefly. Niall’s been texting him nonsense all day, so much so Louis’ thinks he’s gone into Harry-and-Louis withdrawals. He’s just as excited as he’d been late-January afternoon, when Louis had texted him a picture of himself and Harry, with the caption: _found your earbuds._

Still, Louis’ halfway to facepalming, watching Harry ruffle up his sisters’ hair. Linda’s not far behind, “Have I mentioned that I love him?” she asks as she passes Louis’, squeezing his elbow.

Louis manages to squeeze hers back. “Only a few times.” He grins.

She turns away from the madness for only a second, and “Good.” she’s positively beaming.

Louis watches as she slides past Harry and takes the twins’ hands in her own, pressing a quick kiss to the side of Harry’s cheek. “Say goodnight to Mr. Harry.” Linda instructs, taking a step up the staircase. Félicité and Charlotte are already ahead of her, Mark running a bath for the twins in the upstairs bathroom.

The twins go for Harry’s knees, each one hugging him tightly, and “Goodnight,” Harry laughs, rustling up their blonde hair, “Sleep well.”

Louis nearly cries.

“C’mon now.” Linda says and like little angels, they actually _listen_ , hopping up each step in unison until they’re all out of sight.

Louis cries.

But before he breaks down entirely, he sidesteps toward the mantel. Scanning the array of potted plants, candles, and figurines while Harry is preoccupied, Louis stops the second he spots the white envelope. He’d tucked it under an angel statue the night before.

Sliding the envelope free, “Goodnight! Goodnight! Goodnight!” he hears Harry call again, blowing kisses up the stairs.

Louis is wearing a stupid grin all the way up to the sofa. Harry is sighing in satisfaction.

“ _Ugh_ , they’re so great, aren’t they just—”

“I’ve got something for you.” Louis interrupts.

Harry turns toward him right away, almost confusedly, one hand still on the banister. There’s an array of footsteps overhead. “What?” He blinks.

“I’ve got,” Somehow Louis is smiling wider. Oh, how he _loves_ being a cheeky shit, “Something for you.” he finishes, hands tucked behind his back.

Harry lets his hand fall. “For me?” He repeats, quieter now. 

Louis almost laughs, “ _Yes_ ,” he entertains, his knee coming down on the cushion as he leans over sofa, “Come here.”

Louis is halfway to making proper grabby hands at the boy when Harry finally closes the distance between them, crowding Louis’ space in an instant.

“So, I know we—” Harry leans down and presses a kiss to Louis’ lips, cutting him off. He’s cupping Louis’ cheeks with both hands, smoothing their mouths together, until Louis forgets his sentence entirely. They fall into a rhythm after that, Louis’ hands falling to his sides as he leans into Harry’s touch, envelope long forgotten.

A car passes by outside, the headlights casting into the dark living room.

It’s the only thing that pulls Louis back. “No, no, no,” He swats Harry away upon a laugh, breathless and giggly as he retreats into the sofa, “Stop, I’m trying to give you something here.”

Harry had fallen to his knees at some point too, as he is now looking Louis right in the eyes, his chin planted on the sofa back. “Aren’t you?” He breathes, his hands falling into the crook of Louis’ neck, he’s smiling like a child, “I thought you meant a kiss.”

“Oh my god, no,” Louis laughs lightly, running his free hand over his eyes. Harry’s rubbing his thumb against Louis’ jaw subconsciously, “No, that’s not what I meant.”

“What’d you mean, then?” Harry exhales softly, keeping his eyes trained on Louis’ face.

Louis blinks. Even in the dim lamplight, he is impossibly bright. So Louis slides the envelope in between their faces, peeking out over top of it. “I meant this.” Louis finishes.

It takes all of five seconds for Harry to pull his eyes away from Louis’. And when he does, the same look of confusion coats on his features. Slowly, his fingers leave Louis’ skin and attach themselves to the envelope, tracing the edges lightly.

Louis almost laughs. “You have to, uh…” Louis supplies, passing the paper into Harry’s hands, “Open it, y’know.”

“I know, fool,” Harry taps the envelope against Louis’ check as he stands and rounds the sofa, Louis watches him through crinkled eyes, “What happened to _no Easter presents_?”

Louis scoffs. “Vaguely familiar.”

Harry takes a seat silently, angling his torso toward Louis. He doesn’t laugh, he just stares down at the envelope in his hands, like he’s unsure of what to do.

A moment passes.

“Can you please just open—”

But, “I’m opening it.” Harry grins, tearing open the envelope with one swipe.

“Thank god,” Louis laughs right as Harry does, pressing a kiss to the boy’s forehead, and “Let’s go!” Louis chants excitedly, slapping his hands down on the boy’s knees as he fishes out the cardstock stubs, “I wanna see what it is!”

“Like you don’t already know—” Harry stops himself there. Louis would quite like it if he finished. So he tightens his grip on Harry’s knees, watching as the boy finally opens his mouth to speak.

“Queen tickets,” Harry exhales quickly, his eyes flicking back and forth between the stubs and Louis’ face, “Lou, you… we said no Easter presents.”

It’s not really an Easter present, it’s not really a present at all—it’s getting high at two am with Zayn when a notification popped up from their local concert venue. To be honest, Louis doesn’t really remember signing up for Queen’s email updates, but then again, he doesn’t really remember buying the tickets either. That’s what he gets for being a Queen fan, getting high, and falling in love (not necessarily in that order).

Zayn hadn’t stopped him. He encouraged it. Leaning over across the couch, he wrapped his arms around Louis’ shoulders, practically radiating joy—just like he had when Louis came home with a bruised hand and Harry in tow.

Zayn merely grinned at the both of them, lowering his cuppa from his mouth, and said, “Welcome back, Tommo.”

Another set of headlights light up the room, illuminating the printed logo under Harry’s fingertips. “Lou…” Harry starts again, but “C’mon, it’s for the both of us, Adam Lambert is headlining,” Louis persuades him, pausing for a moment, “And to be frank, it’s more of a present for me.”

Harry breaks at that, laughing so loudly he has to cover his mouth with the tickets, “Hey, I may not have been a toddler bopping to I Want to Break Free like you, but I _do_ know them now. And I like them now. Thanks to your iPod confiscation.”

So Louis’ smiling a little too fondly. He inches his body closer. “Thank god for that.”

Harry inches closer too, barely a foot from Louis’ face as he whispers, “I like them a lot _,_ ” he’s watching Louis through heavy eyelids, smirk dancing on his lips when Louis shuts his eyes, “I think it’s safe to say you’ve made me fan.”

“Thank _god_ for that.” Louis exhales all at once, bringing his lips up to Harry’s. Harry leans in too, the tickets landing somewhere in between them, but right before their lips make contact, Harry pulls away.

“Hold on,” The boy whispers, his hand a ghost on Louis’ jawline, “I have something for you too.”

Louis barely has the energy to open his eyes. “What?” But the weight has already shifted on the sofa, the sound of footsteps already filling the silence, the boy’s presence disappearing entirely. 

Louis pops his eyes open.

“Seriously? This, again?” He whisper-yells into the darkness, scanning the room. He throws his arm over the sofa back, hearing the sound of footsteps above his head.

And soon enough, Harry is tiptoeing down the stairs like a lunatic, making sure not to wake the kids. He’s barely reached the floor before he’s speaking.

“They made an anthology of all of the winning pieces, from that contest,” He says hurriedly, and honestly, it’s the first time Louis’ thought about the contest in months. But then Harry’s stepping up to the sofa, drawing a book out from behind his back, and “I thought, maybe, you could have it.” he finishes.

Louis stares at him.

Then, he stares at the book.

It’s matte black and no bigger than one of his textbooks at home, probably three centimeters thick, and “Oh,” Louis comments oddly as he inspects the cover’s gold lettering, reaching out to touch the crisp leather. He admires the way it slides under his fingertips and glimmers beneath the dim lamplight, “That’s… I didn’t even know you had this.”

“Yeah,” Typically, Harry would be smiling with both his eyes and lips, running with the conversation, but now… _now_ his hands are shaking beside Louis’, like the confident boy he’d been all day has gone entirely, “I reckoned one day, when you’re ready, if you want to, you could…”

Louis looks up the second he looks down.

“You could read the story.” Harry finishes.

Louis’ eyes study his shadowy face, bouncing back and forth between Harry’s eyes and the book as it’s silently passed into his palm. Harry doesn’t even look up.

So Louis grabs his forearm. “Harry, it’s…”

“Or lose it. Burn it. Kindling, y’know? Use it as a coaster. A doormat—”

“Harry—”

Harry doesn’t stop rambling. His arm lies limply in Louis’ hand as he shrugs repeatedly, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip, “You can say no, really, it’s—”

Louis rushes forward and grabs the boy’s chin. Harry finally looks up then, eyes wide and round and full. He’s got the world in his eyes. Louis’ got the whole world.

“I’ll read it.” Louis tells him.

Relief floods through Harry in an instant, his arm sliding up to nestle in Louis’ hand.

“Yeah?” He exhales, visibly lighter.

“Yeah,” Louis repeats, breaking into a smile as he gives the book a sturdy tap, “You’d think for someone who claims to be in love with you, I’d read your stuff more often.”

Harry breaks at that, laughing loudly again, so much so Louis has to shush him with the book. They’re giggling and whisper-yelling in the dim light, falling back into the sofa cushions, when Harry leans down to kiss him one last time.

“Yeah, you’d think.” He mumbles against his lips, and Louis can feel his smile.

☆

And Louis does read it.

He reads it on their way home (he cries, a lot), and on his way to campus the next week (he cries, again). He reads it before the next footie match (Niall invites everyone, everyone goes) and after listening to an entire new shipment (try dancing in his grave, Zayn). He reads it while they plan their next GSA fundraiser (Harry’s a bigger philanthropist than previously thought, Louis falls more in love), and on their way to the concert (Harry’s a bigger Queen fan than previously thought, Louis falls even more in love).

With blue hand-coloured edges, it becomes a staple more than an addition, cherished more than owned, and when just Louis thinks he’s finally had enough, he reads it again, and again, until it seems to be in his hand no matter where he goes—much like the hand of who wrote it.


End file.
